Triumphant

A head-shake here,
And a dismissive wave of the hand,
And there's that look of disdain
That paints me wet
With discouragement and doubt.
Perhaps my ideas
Aren't golden enough to please,
Not bourgeois enough
To raise eyebrows
Or draw envy from the first row snobs.
You keep saying it with your silence.
Not good enough.

But art isn't meant to appease;
It confounds,
Discombobulates,
Questions,
And eventually triumphs
Even when you don't understand
That the big red dot
Was never just a dot.
The black canvas
Was the universe as the audience
And the big red dot was me-
Victorious in my battles,
Blushing brightly
In the face of universal applause.