Piano lesson gone awry,
a masterpiece on the wrong surface,
refrigerator door or playpen wall.
Unexpected gas at the wrong time.
A little ****** too. That’s what they’ll pass on about you.

One little mistake and that’s all they remember.
Toilet paper stuck to your shoe,
fly still down.
“Put those crayons away,
it’s time to grow up.” Don’t act like a clown.

“Artists are all lazy drunks and drug addicts, don’t end up a slob.”
“You’ll never make a living doing that.”
“Get a real job.”

Even if you do make it,
the critics can’t wait to tear at you.
The business chews you up
and spits you out too.

“Medicine is magical, and magical is art,
every generation throws a hero up the pop charts.”
It’s never “What have you done?”
It’s “What have you done for me lately?” son.

It was never what you know,
it’s always who you know.
Always struggling just to get it out,
always one centimeter away
from the edge of the soul-crushing meat grinder.

They question what it’s all really about…
The beauty of a little spark growing,
waiting,
the bucket of water world in jealousy,
hating.

Their own dreams stuck in cubicles,
starched collars in dimly lit offices,
yearning,
unable to remember their own sparks burning.