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The Critic Inside
There once was a painter who lived in a small, yellow house
where his only companion was one small mouse.
He had numerous paintings, new and old whose colors began to fade,
But as he painted, he noticed something different that day;
They suddenly seemed better than they had
He rushed into town, feeling quite glad.
They were displayed for all to see,
but the townspeople, they didn't seem to be so keen:
"This house looks like a mountain," said one.
"And this ugly dog looks like a bun."
They had crushed
his heart, once brighter than the sun,
and reduced wonderous feelings into none.
"They aren't that bad!" he cried,
But still became more and more sad.
He decided to get aid
To cover up what was made.
There was a fortune teller he knew
Who lived in the woods, full of lakes of blue.
That very day he started his trek
To fix what had become a wreck.
When he found her house, there was a doctor there
giving her urgent medical care.
Hearing the noise, she turned in her bed
saw the painter she knew well and said,
"I am sick and about to die,"
"so tell me your needs quick, we don't have much time."
The painter declared, "My paintings are getting better and such, but lately, no one has liked them much."
"I understand," the teller claimed,
"many have judged me insane.
They called me a liar, a fake.
Some threatened to burn me at the stake.
But even so, I was sure,
because I know I really can see the future."
The painter thought, as she slipped away,
It did not matter if they, the town, thought his skills had changed.
They could say his paintings were not well done
The only opinion that mattered was of one.
And that one opinion, that opinion, could only be his.