For those who can draw,

let your own soul be seen,

never mind those who say it is drivel.

To the walls of the MET,

let the critics reflect,

that such wonders began with a scribble.

For those who can sing,

let your own song be heard,

never mind those who say it is chatter.

For in those that decry

your ability’s shy,

have forgotten their own mumblings matter.

For those who can dance,

let your movements still hearts,

never mind those who jeer at your flaws,

as you weave in the air

a fine quilt from each stare,

that can loosen the tightest of jaws.

For those who can write,

let your pinion speak hope,

never mind those who say all is wasted.

For if you give up, know the everyman’s cup,

will have never quite known how it tasted.

For those who can pluck a grand song from thin air

and write words that can make grown men swoon,

use those grand bars to make sense of the stars

when you bottle their light with the moon.

For those I perchance did not mention,

but haven’t so soon as forgot,

know that inside, where thoughts run long as wide,

stirs a priceless performance in plot.

– Amy Struthers