Elusive does Creativity Flow

Rembrandt screams at me
In a cornucopia
Of shapes and colours
Dead eyes watch
Follow my every move
I return their stare

Let them laugh
Deride my poor attempts
At putting pigment
On pure white canvas

I do not care
For I live, love and cry
I see their death
Reflected in each
Cracked, age worn eye

Beethoven’s pure, sweet notes
Paint pictures in my mind
And stir within me
A great creative muse

My fingers bleed
Soon worn to the bone

No matter the long hours
That I pound on yellowed ivory
The black and white keys
Follow their own selfish dream

Robbie Burn’s words
Still give me hope
That I still may achieve
Some sweet measure of greatness
Fame and fickle fortune
May at last
Knock loudly on my door

Paper, in pristine whiteness
Stares boldly back at me
Mocking, making fun
Just as Rembrandt’s people did

I laugh back in return
Because I am still alive