Original Piece by Apoetsbrain ©
He sits with tears in his eyes.
Pondering upon the evolution of humans in his ‘world’.
He is at the prime of his skills.
His skill is but to think then paint.
He paints, he sculpts, he draws, and he thinks.
Wishing for everyone to read and see what he has to offer.
Once again, he is left on his own with his thoughts,
And so he weeps, for it hurts his very soul.
He no longer longs to display his works
For the aesthetic judge is as shallow as can be.
For across from him lies brilliance.
Brilliance and beauty, with no questions, stories, or purpose like his portrays.
So he sits here, and he cries, with a wounded soul.
He cries for his world of Art.
Cries that no one wants to think any more.
But still he tires not. For even now, he still sculpts in blood and tears.
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