The Artist

The Artist
Selfishness plagues me,
I am an odd sort of stupid,
Unable to settle for treasures found,
And prizes won,
The grass goes unwatered,
The well not filled,
Pandora’s lid flaps in my breeze,
The Earth moves beneath me,
And I fall, dizzy, for notions that fade
One by one, like countless others.
The only dream that lives is art.
But art cannot caress me,
It cannot cradle in strong arms,
Smooth brittle hair,
Feel dry lips,
Yet it grasps the truth I need to give,
It renders me weak, dumb, and numb,
For it, I take chances and thumb my nose
At those who love me,
Yet I die each day,
Still guarding my darkest corners.
The place my soul takes refuge is art.
Vulnerable like that stark canvas,
I am an odd sort of survivor
Navigating a failed system,
A world that may not hear my song,
One where rules are king,
And logic prevails,
Oh, where is my kingdom,
Where do I go to breathe,
To feel it all, 
To swallow. 
The only light that shines me home is art.
Idiot!
I am lost hoping to be found,
Touched,
Experienced,
To feel the bright light
Of the world’s tear upon my cheek,
But I fail,
I am frail,
Thirsty for a dream that may not exist,
Dumb enough to believe
I can have it all.
 

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