In the chaos of creation,

The artist’s conundrum begins.

A lack of space to store,

The works that burst from within.

A canvas here, a sculpture there,

Colours splattered and smeared,

Each piece a part of the artist’s soul,

Their passion and pain ensnared.

But what to do with these treasures,

These haphazardly stored creations?

Sell them off for a pittance,

Or keep them hidden in frustration?

To part with them is to lose a part of oneself,

To hold on is to drown in clutter.

The artist’s conundrum is a bitter pill to swallow,

A constant battle with no clear winner.

And so the works pile up,

A testament to the artist’s drive.

A reminder of their struggle,

And the beauty they strive to revive.

In the end, perhaps it’s not the art that matters,

But the journey that it represents.

The artist’s conundrum may never be solved,

But their passion will always remain intense.


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