Bent over my workbench at midnight,
painting, drawing, patiently marking down
small pieces of art, quietly cataloguing
all the silly things I do for art, for love,
for following money. The shop filled
with niche likes, the cheap art and
the many things I love and surrender
to be taken elsewhere. Impostor syndrome
whispers in my ear; will they ever care enough
to take my loved things, buy them and bring them home?
This is so wistful and sweet, it breaks my heart. It captures the artist’s dilemma, sell your darlings or keep them close? Beautiful, and sad, too.
It’s so sad…self doubt can be so horrible. I have learned that there is always someone that will love your work. Your poem was beautiful.