The Child

 The child plays
With a set of mismatched paints,
Strewn across paper
On a classroom easel. 
No rhyme,
No reason, 
No meaning beyond
What the child thinks
Is beautiful.
 
The teacher nods sagely.
The parents beam in approval.
The older sister groans
At the latest masterwork.
The cousin wonders how many more 
They'll make
Before they give up on art 
For good. 
 
The child cries,
Hungry for approval.
At the encouragement 
Of their parents
They soldier on.
New works are brought home,
New stories written with
No rhyme,
No reason,
Nothing but the hope
Of one day being seen. 
 
Authority holds out hope
That the child will give up, 
But the child has parents 
Who give them everything they want.
 If the child had any idea
Of what the world was like
Their work would be inspiring.
But instead it's derivative,
Boring,
Pointless. 
 
Time passes by
And the child soldiers on
In pursuit of praise.
Pen goes to paper,
Paint goes on canvas,
Work is created with
No rhyme,
No reason,
Nothing beyond
A bid for attention.
 
The world is unlucky,
And the child never grows up
No matter how much time passes.
Family connections mean their work goes
From the front of the refrigerator
To the front pages
Of social media. 
 No one likes what they make,
But the world is full of people
Who long to create
Without the risk of judgement. 
 
The child hasn't grown, 
Their work is the work
Of their younger self,
Without the benefit
Of wisdom.
The child,
In a bid for attention,
Builds a world a child cannot live in.
 
The child,
Like all children,
Believes that belief
Is all it takes
To make something real.
The child believes
That if enough people see their work
And tell them that it matters,
That means they must be 
A Picasso
Or a Van Gogh.
The child,
Like all children,
Doesn't want to grow up. 
 
Adults stand from afar,
Mocking the child
For their childish work,
And for learning nothing
About life
In the decades that 
They've been alive.
They're baffled
By those 
Who say that the child's
Work 
Is golden.
 
Somewhere out there,
Someone loves 
Everything the child
Says and does,
But to the rest
There's no rhyme,
No reason,
Nothing but a commentary 
On the folly 
Of the human race.