Sonnet of Just Because

Of art, the hardest stage is creation,
The harshest critic is the empty page;
Transmitting phrases, bold, of elation,
Pity, fear, love, acceptance, boundless rage.
Ev’ry tercet snuffed beneath a dead bell,
Heroic couplets failing epic quests,
Excellent settlement which will sell well,
Symbols graduate to concrete concepts.
So fiery syllables extinguish,
Ants ascending upon a hill of sap,
Fossilized, immobile, have but one wish,
Please, fire, burn, and turn to ash the trap.
Put the pen to paper and with faith trust,
Though hated, we will write, because we must.