Sonnet XIII: Art is Selfish

Art is selfish, the pen that writes is vain

It flatters itself filling a blank page

To think its ink is worth enough to stain

Requires desire, eager ego to assuage

A flower dies knowing beauty provides

Attracting bees provides a rose with heirs

A writer prunes and sprays pesticides

A failed attempt to claim beauty as theirs

But is it less selfish to be morose? 

Sitting inside thinking circles of hurt

Depression can’t produce, though it is verbose

It crushes nascent rosebuds into dirt

Oscar Wilde gives advice I should take

Delight in beauty for beauty’s own sake