We sometimes have a picture,
Of what we've painted in our minds.
Those paintings are much softer of stroke,
And smoother, leaving out harhness of their lines.
Until one day a critic arose,
From the shadows of your screen.
And tells you how it really looks,
Through arts passion of what they've seen.
You fist your hands in a cursing pose,
How dare they critisise me?
My work is like that of Rembrandt,
I think they're blinded and just being mean!
Till one day you too see the painting,
For the art it truly is.
Strokes and colors seem not as once viewed before,
Revealing the blindness, of your self indulging sin.
Linda Winchell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/critic-2/
