Artist's Remorse

There's an achiness

Of little worth

In everything that's known.

Meaningless inklings

Which overpower

Value brought— Worry.

Minds weaving existence

And shaping who we are.

Doubt in maker's eyes but

Experiences for the rest.

Maybe worth the pennies

Or perhaps a priceless fate;

Etched into generations.

And there will be those rejecting—

Solidifying sour inklings

Of artist's remorse.

It is not made for them, though

Others reach out and

Never let go.