What sort of unimaginable beauty resides
Within an artist's praise?
What godlike force makes it such
A euphoric feeling of grace?
A few simple words of acknowledgement of talent
Or a grandiose paragraph of worship
Can make a failing author or a starving artist
Feel like God on Earth, a living muse.
Can it be compared to
A loving compliment to one's child,
For what an artist makes
Comes from within himself, his body,
And he calls it his own, his baby?
Perhaps it is like being God
And being complimented on the nice work
Of creating a livable universe.
Maybe there is no articulating the experience,
The feeling, the unparalleled emotion,
But one cannot deny,
There are few pleasures in this world
To rival such exhilaration.