Ode to the Artists
The givers of life
The ones who bring joy
And wondrous strife

Ode to the Poets
The ones who keep giving
The writers with nothing
Who make life worth living

Ode to the Music Makers
Who give melody to all
For life without glorious tune
Would be our downfall

Ode to the Travelers
The ones who devise
They stray far away
And never think twice

Ode to the Dreamers
The ones who make it true
They prove the impossible
To all who need but believe, and do

And Ode to the so-called Wicked
The ones they cast out
Who all know true sorrow
And armed with that, we breakout!

Breakout of convention
Of the daily routines
We make it our mission
To dare and do what we dream

For the ones who are ordinary
Who stay within the lines
They don't achieve anything at all
And live life unalive.

Fixed on repeat with stagnation as aural salvation
they dance to the archaic discord
entombed in relics from 1973
rooted in pensivity behind the repetition of each melody
they've heard this one before
used it to pick themselves up from the floor
an effigy to lost lovers
who used to sit beside them
smoking on the balcony
paying duty to a capitalist society
taxing themselves with each breath.

They never hear the strings breaking in silence
dancing through progressions
which paint plaintive signs of the times
disparity haunts the rhymes
but nostalgia stole the show
apathy drives ignorance
to the songs, they don't know.

Artists gorge on the decline
too many pills to swallow
so instead, they'll do another line.

formulaic

derivative

uninspired

sophomoric

myopic

misguided
­
decorative

nicely framed

I've listened to Bowie, I've dabbled with John
Obeyed there instructions and tried to get gone.
I've drafted the ship and gathethered a team
To disappear into space and follow my dream.
Inhaling O2---helmet is on
as I listen to a memorable song
Major Tom?
I can hear his voice now.
Release.
         A tear falls free.
As Im suspended above,
Startled to come down.

Think about it...

Nothing is sweeter than two poets writing about each other.

Nothing is happier than two musicians playing for each other.

Nothing is more amazing than two singers singing to each other.

Nothing is more beautiful than two artists painting for each other.

Although, the best is still two humans living for each other.

I've heard artists always create more when they're in mourning.
I understand that now.

Since you lack what's called belief
Than become your own God
& better yourself for me

Cause now you're broken
& it’s easier for you to hide
But who has to clean this all up when you die

painting
there are so many different kinds and
so many different artists with respective training
let me tell the story of one
she liked to let go
she didn't like lines
the cloudiness of watercolor she found no woe
flowing with ease
the water went where it pleased
without tedious thought
it took the 'pain' out of painting
she was able to feel the art and the thoughts and the feelings
that art should inflict on a soul

shaking frustrations, heart aching situations,
she breaks her fingers in a brick wall confrontation
red/black/orange/purple seep from the opaque -
white knuckles, squeezing tight
she rips the papers, shreds she dreads
broken frames, abandoned - afraid,
the expectations, sit heavy - break her neck
her head hangs
fists and wrists - left -
contorted.