Poem: The Artist

I was an artist

The brush was my knife

The paint was my blood

The canvas my life

My paintings were endless

And the critics were too

So I painted much harder

It’s all I could do

I painted all night

Till my canvas was full

Ran out of room

But I gave it my all

I used so much paint

They threw out my brush

It made me feel faint

But it gave me a rush

They hung out my canvas

And hoped it would dry

Removed all my tools

Till the artist had died