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Matthew Thomas Donovan


Confession of a Tired Artist


As I stand there in a makeshift gallery
It becomes increasingly obvious
That no-one's looking at the
Art
The paintings just kind of hang there
On the walls,
Unnoticed by the chattering
Crowds

It is then that I realize
The futility of it all,
The foolishness of wearing my heart on my sleeve,
Only to be washed over by the corners of uninterested eyes

I am a decoration,
a sad little insect
wriggling on the wall,
stuck into place
with a pin.

Submitted: Sunday, March 17, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, September 02, 2014
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Topic of this poem: art


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Poet's Notes about The Poem

It's a true story, unfortunately.

Comments about this poem (Confession of a Tired Artist by Matthew Thomas Donovan )

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  • Rookie - 792 Points Soumita Sarkar (5/13/2013 12:52:00 AM)

    Are you an artist also? ? I mean a painter.......? ? Don't loose heart, the greatest duty of a creator is to keep creating unmindful of the accolade. Fighter.......go on! I invite you to read my poems and comment upon them if you can. (Report) Reply

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