Art and the Artist
by Michael Doyle

It isn't much of a choice
An artist must feel their voice.
Of course, money means something,
But it's in no way everything.

It's better to go down in glory
Than to never live one's story.
The fight is the undivided soul
Against the Collective's need for control.

Plugging in to the band had found
Music must be music, pound for pound.
A poet must write what he must write.
It matters little who else thinks he's right.

The critics take it snip for snip,
When the decision is made to be tragically unhip.
Always thoughtful to tell their story,
The people's band rises to full glory.

Drinking the milk of calloused paradise,
And daring to rage against empty advice.
An artist will form their own reality,
Whether by accident or somewhat formally.

Forging creativity closer to the heart,
The blacksmiths of rock grab it from the start.
It's always down to the musical groove.
There's a need to feel, but maybe not improve.

More of that which only seems the same,
Played out to the ends of the game.
A manic experiment in sonic chemistry.
It's a matter of strength and intensity.

To write about what makes you reach,
The song teaches as the singer starts to preach.
Some songs write themselves without a chart.
That's when you know the Muse is in your heart.

Rocking and edging to the point of mistake,
It disrupts the rhythm with a lead break.
There is so much love that we need to make,
Until the outside world starts to shake.

The making of modern music molds the moo.
In sophisticated waves that don't intrude.
Seamless, the rhythms are a secret mix,
And at last, there is nothing to fix.

(c) May 8, 2026   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved