Each day begins with
The type of thoughts that
I’d rather not disclose because
You may think i’m ****** or
Just kind of indisposed
I read somewhere the gene for
Artistry carries a Foe
A higher predisposition for these
Thoughts that make me groan and
Some say this disordered thinking simply
Means I’m contemplative even
Intelligent or
Just closed off to the thought of being
Content
Aint that a word
The idea to be content to be
Ok with all the things i’ve done
Satisfied with my work enough to
Say it’s good enough?
No not something i can do
As an Artist I spend my days lying in
Contempt of my own mind
Brilliantly undefined to the point of
Madness
Painting for hours on end
Looking up when the suns gone down
Massaging numbness from cold fingers
Writing pages by lamplight
Tearing papers in frustration
Whitewashing paintings in a fit of
Inadequacy
As an Artist
Nothing you do will ever be the best
Not even your best
A constant crushing cacaphony of all the potential and possibilities
If youre like me you know
Every second you’re betraying your own potential to do better
Every moment not improving is a moment disrespecting
What you were given
But every moment working to improve is hellish
Scrapping line after line of useless poetry and
Smudged up paintings
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
Each day begins with
The type of thoughts that
I’d rather not disclose because
You may think i’m ****** or
Just kind of indisposed
I read somewhere the gene for
Artistry carries a Foe
A higher predisposition for these
Thoughts that make me groan and
Some say this disordered thinking simply
Means I’m contemplative even
Intelligent or
Just closed off to the thought of being
Content
Aint that a word
The idea to be content to be
Ok with all the things i’ve done
Satisfied with my work enough to
Say it’s good enough?
No not something i can do
As an Artist I spend my days lying in
Contempt of my own mind
Brilliantly undefined to the point of
Madness
Painting for hours on end
Looking up when the suns gone down
Massaging numbness from cold fingers
Writing pages by lamplight
Tearing papers in frustration
Whitewashing paintings in a fit of
Inadequacy
As an Artist
Nothing you do will ever be the best
Not even your best
A constant crushing cacaphony of all the potential and possibilities
If youre like me you know
Every second you’re betraying your own potential to do better
Every moment not improving is a moment disrespecting
What you were given
But every moment working to improve is hellish
Scrapping line after line of useless poetry and
Smudged up paintings