To Love The Artist Is A Difficult Strain

We love the art, not the artist . . .

Mihar Diaries

In shadows deep, the artist dwells alone,
Where echoes of acclaim ring through the air.
Yet in his heart, a silent, anguished moan,
For admiration’s warmth, he cannot share.

His brush, his pen, his soul’s unyielding fire,
Ignites the canvas, conjures worlds unseen.
Yet in the glow of praise, a bitter mire,
As unseen hands deny what might have been.

Oh, cruel unfairness, bitter, biting sting,
When all applaud the art, but not the heart.
For love of beauty is a fleeting thing,
While love of artist proves a different art.

They marvel at his craft, his skill, his grace,
But who will stay when shadows start to fall?
To love an artist, in this human race,
Demands a heart that answers every call.

The canvas, though it sings with vibrant hue,
Is but a mask for deeper wells of pain.
For though the world may love the art he drew,
To love the artist is a difficult strain.

So let us not forget the soul behind,
Whose anguish paints the masterpiece we see.
For in the silence of the artist’s mind,
Lies the truest form of empathy.