On this precipice I sit
Staring down at all I’ve made
To suit the snares of urban life
Inside my gilded cage

Beyond the prison you can see
Imagination there to tap
Banging on the silent bars
Of your self made trap

Feel the mundane shackles
Artistic death is in my eye
I pick my choice of weapons
Rip my binds and start to fly

Ideas they are a swirling
Some are made, some still unknown
Within the contours of my mind
Remaining mine, and mine alone

As I breath, I will create
But shown they will never be
For the judgement of the masses
For the only judge, it will be me

I mend my broken artists wings
For here I cannot stay
The world not wants my voice and thoughts
No one’s listening anyway

© Copyright – Louise Pull Ceramics