Corner of a Studio

I wrote this based on my own personal depiction of Monet's "Corner of a Studio"

Every Word is obscure beauty.

From insecure thought to vapid confession.

The components of both are unspeakable. They can't be described solely by words.

They dream of artistry for it's reader. For the listeners. For the naysayers.

 

I sit in my corner, desolate and isolated.

I find world vision without man's magnifying glass.

Reaped in the darkest depths of the mind, I create illusion.

 

With every stroke that whisps across the page and every bristle that cradles joyous paint,

Both they and I refer to my corner, where innovation lies.

 

The true clue of artistry isn't remembered solely by the beauty of percieved imagery,

but by the sight of patience and virtue.

 

To take part in scenery, to become one with nature, I refer back to my corner tucked away in the shadows of madness.

Where creativity sprouts but happy solitude already exists.

 

A lonely man am I.

A profound sense of misery that goes beyond the flesh, beyond the mind, and straight to the soul.

It dangles over the outside world. It hangs desperately in the air.

 

But I have conquered.

 

Society's biases and established mockeries haven't laid a finger on me.

Because of my corner, I gain world vison. I gain supernatural perspective. I gain strength to create and share something bigger than myself.