Blood, sweat tears...the paintbrush a single channel for such hardships.
The canvas, white and plain, bleeds the result of a hard day's work.
The artist stands back and recoils at his piece, his pain and suffering displayed for all to see.
He covers it in white, and starts again and again and again_Until it's perfect, until pain becomes art and art becomes pain.
The cycle is anguishing and draining, emotionally and physically, he toils over the image_his life waning away, like the crescent moon.
Finally, his life is nearly over..His years displayed for all to see, all molded perfectly into a piece.
Beauty and ugliness form such a creation, sorrow and despair are the colors that illuminate such a piece.
He stands there, waiting. Waiting for someone to see, waiting for a comment, waiting for a critique...
And she comes, beautiful, tall and skinny. The perfect hair, the perfect body_She sheds her clothing and poses in such explicit ways, such narcissistic ways.
She poses, the camera snaps, she poses, the crows jeers. She smiles at the artist, whose life is nearly gone. She's taken his glory, and she knows this.
She's society's whore, societies bitch_and she knows this.
But she doesn't care. She get's the fame, get's the fortune...and he dies, the artist, he dies in sorrow....dies in pain.
For his life, an epoch of creativity, has been bested by the likes of a naked girl. And he's powerless against it. Society will always prefer her, she's what they strive to be.
His life is nothing but a pebble, compared to the body she's been sculpted with. With no hope left of civilization, for she has it in her palms, he passes for good, his emotions graying on the canvass.