The myth of the starving artist is real
Humans suffer for no other reason
Enter the realm of faith where hope believes
Myths in themselves explain phenomena
Yet, when we give names to ideas, we hide
The truth behind a veil of dark corners
Haunted by past events, always present
Open to time as an oracle speaks
Fortune slips out of the sieve leaving gold
This gold is neither fool's gold nor real gold
Humble artists accept practice as work
Even if they never get paid a dime
Starving, doing other menial jobs
The artist returns to her task at hand
Artists craft the sensory world through eyes
Riddled by invention, where what is real
Verily is simply a composite
Ideas as categories create blocks
Now how we use those blocks, to build great walls
Get in the way of seeing past ideas
Art is a process of discovery
Remember the navigators who sailed
The seas around dark corners, the hidden
If what they discover is the beyond
Still, they encounter other people, worlds
The goal, to circumnavigate the globe
In this ultimate achievement, we dance
Swing all night long and collapse on the floor
Remember, we are as starving artists
Every day hungry for experience
Art is born of ashes and dust from bones
Let the dead protect us as ancestors
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