Looped around like a song we’ve been bleeding out from our ears, our years are pulled by a gravitational force bound by fears, the soil of our soul kept nourished by sobering tears…no more stains on my mane, I’ve climbed the largest rock and have nothing to gain, when profit becomes the prophet, our full beauty has receded and waned.
My art was my life, my dreams were in expression, but in the recession of monetary aggregation, aggression dressed this delight and became my plight. I’ve been polite and sanded down my rough edges so that I can fit myself in acceptable nooks and wedges, starting to be left at the end of the right moment, constantly peering out over ledges.
I can’t sift through the distinctions of wisdom, gut, intuition, and pure stubbornness and tenacity of Will. Am I right in believing in the power of creativity? Am I delusional in believing in the power in a self-created lifestyle that is attuned to my personal formula, where art and creation are profitable, natural processes of my days and nights like crickets filling the silence of meadows, of escorts filling the sheets of fellows, of snakes who move on from old skins, and shed those.
Let our reform be justly chaotic, and scattering like sawdust through sunlight in unattended attics, let’s disperse the words and formulate a larger picture and cozy’s up the unknown mass of our lives, our lifetimes, our lifespans, our life influence, into a cohesive melody that dances from the currents of thought that push the sails of our being, navigating through the voyage of emotional waves, led by a crazy captain who cannot disguise his dreams of land, of home, from the fog that surrounds his ship.
If writing is my savior, if connecting is my hope, and if the creative process is a pure vice that grants me a taste of divine creativity, the illusion of having control, of being a master in an idealized world, then let me be a delusional king, a magnanimous victor, a prolific and adept scholar, a craftsman of the mind, an artist of the pen.