It's not the fear that brings
about the images the painter
paints.
The words the writer writes.
The shapes the sculptor
sculpts.
Or the sounds the
musician brings.

It's the knowledge that there is more
than the trash filled gutters.
The windowless bars and
loveless street girls.
The foreign commerce you are
expected to buy and the life
you've been trained to sink
yourself  into while still dreaming
of oh so much more.

Some gifts shine and cast rainbows
in the light and some gifts expose the
darkness we all know is there but still
refuse to see.

The masses look to make a Hero
out of the artist.
They set prices on the works
and attempt to understand the
view.

This craft here comes in waves.
All there is to do is
try to keep up with the demands
of this ongoing battle
for time.

Time to sacrifice more
to the machine.
Less time for all the bad things.
More time for the gift.

My need to shy away from
the crowds in order to
create hand woven magic in the
dark.
The need to challenge Platos
view.
The need to feel the numbing
cold of Dantes Hell.
The need to live out my days
in Bukowskis harsh vision
of the world.

The gears of their clocks
keep grinding.
Grinding like a junk yard tweekers
teeth.

My remaining pages remain
unfilled and the sun has already
set on my tomorrow.