William says he doesn’t like what I do
Well not me in particular
But anybody who does what I do

The grand parts are painted in grand strokes
The tender parts in tender strokes
Or so I thought when I attempted it

But it lacks definition
It lacks clarity
It lacks form

That’s me talking not William
All I ever wanted was to make something of value
That’s not really true

I’ve wanted other things too
Recognition
To equal what I admire

And so I recognize myself
In all the failures that have come before
Well not all I don’t know them all

But William helps me see
I’m just like them
I guess I should be grateful

I protest that I mean well that I’m sincere
Most damning praise of all
I’ve fallen short of what I meant

But what harm have I done
Soiling the history of art
With well-meaning clumsy blots and daubs

A man of achievement especially in literature
Is capable of remaining in uncertainty
But here the evidence is overwhelming

I believed that feeling would find a way
And so it has
The old bad feelings assert themselves

But that doesn’t make it intelligible
That doesn’t make it a joy forever
A symptom is not a symphony

And a new feeling is added to the old
The party to which I thought myself invited
Is a hoax