The Drippings

You sort and sift and build stacks,
categorizing a body of work
from an unruly mind, to make sense of it all,
the years of journey and experimentation,
in an attempt to become famous enough
for a bit more income, yet obscure enough
you can disappear now and again
and no one will notice, a fundamental conflict
that you have struggled with most of your life,
a need to both matter, and be invisible
to everyone except those that see what they need to see
in the drippings of words and paint
you leave behind.

About this poem

Sorting through my artwork as I prepare a new assault on galleries. And this poem popped up.

Tom