Authenticity Of Artistry

He was an artist,
A phenomenal one.
He made music with his quaint yet expansive world;
It was the child and melody of his reclusiveness.
A child that taught him how to write the alphabet of happiness.

He was sceptical,
A precarious choice.
He knew creating from the heart could end up in tragedy
Yet Content with delusional reality, he spilled his paints all over the canvas.
The Art defied all rules of reality yet defined his happiness in its fragility.

He was hit by criticisms, 
A deep cut;
Around him the hate danced in circles and pointed calloused fingers.
They made fun of his sincerely awkward movement and upturned feet.
It brought him crumbling to the floor.

He lifted himself,
A period of chaos.
He patched up his heart by sombre condolences;
It helped him continue on to his journey
And to fight with the inner and outer critique and smear blank pages with a concoction of his emotions.

He was so close,
A glorious death approached him.
He fell from his pedestal to a soft velvety bed of flowers. 
The world vowed to never forget him , his art or his soul.
His epitaph reads "A man who was in love with his own heart , The world remembers him for not remembering the world while creating art."