some pseudo-creative minds are prone to demonic critique
incessantly seek
a pandemonium to please
and persistently confuse
the pure "win" and the lose
but losing is nothing
but misusing His wings
and blessings
why belt out karaoke when my Muse can sing
so let the peanut gallery forecast my demise
let critics criticize
let the pedantic paint lies
let amateurs sing their sorry tune
(to which I'm immune)
and beneath the sky of conventionality
let them hide
fearful conformity is suicide
so let alloys roll off academia's tongue
so long as pearls roll off of mine
so long as Art shines in my 13^th hour
so long as words still bear feathers
and transcend earthly "nevers"
He's saved me
and raised me
to realize the Hero
that they'll never be.