What the **** kind of artist am I? I say I'm a poet, but you wouldn't know it if you saw me through my eyes. My whole existence is just a guise. I compromise my way through the day, wasting away what little talent I may possess. I'll confess that I've been impressed with some of the things I've managed to remove from my chest, but it would be in jest for me to suggest that I've ever given anyone or anything anywhere near my best.
I grieve the death of communication, but with each anxious breath my verbal constipation gets gridlocked, words backing up and choking out, leaving me a broken stutterer, muttering to myself that I'm a stupid schmuck, a ******* out of luck, wasting time and getting stuck, with the most frequent word in my vocabulary being ****...
I'd be a sitting duck if it weren't for my sheer stubbornness shoving this struggling mind to rise like a hawk, terrorizing the skies with my fantasized verbiage and tantalizing turbulence. NO one else has a plane of thought that swerves like this, and when I crash land, I trudge across the tumultuous terrain to prove my worth to myself.
I create my own living hell, my own prison cell. My heart knows I excel, but my eyes only open when I fail, which makes it hard to tell if I've gained any traction. My prison bars have cut my vision into fractions, marring my perception and staring the conception of self dissension.
I spelunk through the sunken wonders in my skull, wandering from wreck to wreck, scouring the decks for hidden sets of similes to act as seeds for my flowering dreams. My dreams always seem just out of reach, but comfortably within my sight; and although I yearn to touch, apparently seeing is good enough to keep me sedated.
I'm compensated with overrated praise from those closest to me. I have to hold boulders above my shoulders to keep my nose to the grindstone as I blindly roam through forests of undone poems, revealing themselves to me as blazing trees, jealous of the message held by their burning cousin. Dozens of roots grew though my veins, ingraining my fingers as I walked through the smoke, groping with my broken limbs, hoping for that day to come when tires swing from my bows again!
But I won't settle for being one of them-- a motionless stem, potent with potential that lies latent beneath layers of sentimental protection. I stave off being rooted by stripping my bark bare and shooting my words into the air instead. The leaves bloom and blossom inside my head, allowing me to dream in color, compounding fantasy and reality into the blurring plurality that's governing between my ears.
My horizons delight my eyes with sights of blinding brilliant bouquets of vibrant prisms that could make prisoners cheer.
They give me hope. Hope that one day I can cope with myself, stop blocking my path with felled trees, and just be pleased to have been Me.