The Cost of Art

Awoke today with a beautiful passing thought,
I'd give myself of what I haven't been taught.
The more I gave,
The less I could save.
Pulled in every which direction
At the expense of someone's correction.
Time has become a fleeting commodity
It's painful grasp that squeezes as you try to flee.
The depleting trickery of the number
Causes one to live an automated slumber.
The tightening strain that wrenches the soul
That's left to wonder, what is the goal?
It is the terrible joy of playing the fool
Of stepping aside from your own rule.
It's daunting, to hang, for the world to see
What is the cost of art?  Being alive to be.