Art is so beautifully misunderstood,
You can't sing,
Unless your voice,
Is selling out stadiums.
You can't paint,
If your artistry isn't displayed in a gallery,
Locked away for the rest of time to see.
You can't play piano,
If you don't compare to Mozart
Or Beethoven, or Bach.
And, why would you ever,
Bother to write a poem,
If Shakespeare has
Already, lived and died,
And Emily Dickenson,
Has said her goodbyes?
Art is useless,
Unless you are great,
Art is meaningless,
Unless it can be bought and sold —
Capitalized, until the world is content.
That's what society has taught us,
But they so beautifully misunderstand.
And so,
We forget that art,
Is so, beautifully human.
As long as we have been here,
We've been creating,
Singing, dancing, growing
Our prose will be here, always,
Writing our names into the skyline,
Keeping us here,
Even when we fade away.
Art is what makes us human,
It's not for money or fame,
It's what proves we're alive,
And that we haven't changed
In a millennium.
The famous artists,
Never meant to be known,
They only ever meant,
To live.
And I am the same,
In my mind and soul,
I don't want to be recognized,
I just want to write,
And be me.
- C.c
I wrote an (un-premiered) fugue for piano based on this poem. I'm am so deeply proud of that piece of music.
