We pay a price to choose between a life
of being normal and of making art.
The former runs from hurt and signs of strife,
the artist sees the pain as others can’t.
But normal people never doubt themselves
as though this doubting were a bad disease.
They never panic about what may never sell
or panic about who they’ll never please.
The artist foregoes simpleness in all
its forms; they inhabit kaleidoscopes.
They cannot dream of ignoring the call
that compels wonder into fears and hopes.
The artist faces this choice no matter what;
to just live life or see it bloom and rot.
Iestyn Tudor 