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The Artist, frustrated

would that a bird carry away my words
to a world that saw reason in my rhyme . . .

but alas,
i feel we are about out of time,
and night settles like a heavy blanket, wet
dousing the fires of my passion 'til the morrow

(oh why must i always live for tommorow?)

why do i care what people will say
on a day that never comes?

driven under the lash of my own ego
to produce

(words)

(and phrases)

meaningful and subtle
when my own life can seem so devoid of meaning
and subtle as a freight train
wearing down the pennies of my dreams and talents
into paper thin shards of copper and steel
to open the veins of my wrist
and pour out onto this page
the blood of my experience
for all to see

(for themselves)

the artist, frustrated

(for reason)

that saw a world
in his rhyme.

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