An artist. The word feels almost worn. But it’s the one we reach for. Why an artist? Because to be an artist is to see something new. A feeling inside that others might miss, it’s true. A muse, a light that begins to gleam. Their being stirs something within a dream. You have to try to hold it, it would seem. Though how to grasp it, the edges stream. What is a muse? It lives because an artist wills it. A pull from somewhere where silence and wonder sit. To be an artist needs words or a touch that’s true. But the why of it is sometimes the meaning we steal from the feel. I want my muse on this paper to stay. That I know. But the way to do it, the surfaces keep. Existing as they always have. This much I reap from a quiet belief. To truly make it alive, my hand sometimes falters. One paper? Too slight. The truth disappears. Maybe many tries won't dry these tears of frustration, of what isn't clear. To have my muse here on these scraps on the ground. Trying to make it right, where can perfection be found? Words, they falter. They leave so much unbound. Why an artist? The answer's a soft, persistent sound. Despite all these words, a fragile knowing takes hold. To describe an artist, a story yet untold. But a muse needs an artist, And an artist aches for a muse's light. The muse accepts this, this gentle imprint. To stay on the paper where memories glint. Because someone needed them, a silent hint. An artist's fingers are marked by the colors they chase. An artist's dry throat whispering what feels clear. A muse in their senses, a cherished space. Trying to catch, remember, in this fleeting place.