You are the luckiest when an artist loves you
For he or she will make you their masterpiece
In every way that they can
That others cannot
Yet, you must have forbearance
Whereas an artist will always have problems
Something will always be imperfect
Something will always be missing
You have to know what right words to say
For them to keep on going
Whatever it is
A painting, a poem, a novel, a song
An artist is good in a lot of things
It is their masterpiece
It is what keeps them alive
And you are their strength and inspiration
To make magic with their minds and hearts
By their mouths and hands
But, I can assure you,
You are the luckiest when an artist loves you

Bloodied fingers are badges of honor
that few men suffer themselves to accept.
Part of the debt the instrument incurs;
a separation of skilled and inept.

The mastery of half a dozen steel
strings oft becomes a lifetime endeavor.
This daring quest for musical ideals
demands commitment lasting forever.

A hollow body touches the essence
of perfection that is merely expressed
by mortal beings of inconsequence
who caress the Muse nevertheless.

Ten fingers endure torture on six strings
for melodies only guitars can bring.

I’m the degenerate you love to hate,
the unclean sinner who won’t tow the line.
You ridicule my independence at dinner parties,
among similarly dressed cronies,
the institutionalized prisoners
of prestige.

Hate us all, the degenerates.
Scorn the indie musician on the sidewalk.
He colors the dull march of the khakis.
Despise the painter in welfare housing.
She strokes thick lines of anguish
upon uncomfortable canvases.
Taunt the quiet poet at the end of the bar.
He writes raw truth on napkins gone ignored.

Loathe the degenerates you secretly *****
when fashionable friends aren’t looking.
Eyes fixed upon your contemptuous smirk,
I am unable to cast judgment upon you.
Another degenerate spreads her tattooed thighs
without any hope of acceptance.
She only wishes to feel for a moment
the intoxicating sensation of
temporary love.

The degenerate’s ****** is the richest syrup
that briefly covers your vanilla routines.
Debauchery provides you a moment
to feel freedom within slums,
the pleasures of darkness,
the uninhibited passions of a life
without approval.

Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart

She sits on the courthouse steps
Playing songs she herself wrote
Every word she sings she means
Her heart there in every note.
She sings of the pain she sees
In the world that passes by.
She sings to you and to me
Her music makes you cry.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

She manages to choose chords
That sing of lonely suffering.
Her angelic voice softens up
The accusations she’s uttering.
She tells of squandered glory
In the wasting of our lives
While the overfed rich people
Go home to their gilded wives.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

Few listen to the troubadour
Who tells us all our name.
They may drop in a penny
To soften up their shame.
But every day they pass her
And soon they do not hear
The wisdom in her lyrics.
They do not feel the fear.

(She sings)
We who have so much
Give little to the others.
We let our children starve
And do not help the mothers
And the fathers who work
To make their daily bread
While rich people won’t help
Keep a house over their heads.

Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015

i fell for the drummer
hes pretty cute
and, quite ironically, meeting you on my birthday
granted my wish
not even knowing who your band was or why you were here didn't matter once you started playing
after your set a girl and I got your number
you seemed so cool and my hands were so sweaty and hot that if we touched,  I don't know if I would've frozen or if you would've melted.
I guess she didn't want to text you as much as I did
but I'm kinda happy about that

we're pretty good friends now
and I guess you could say that things are going well between us
but, like a greedy child at christmas, I want more.

I really like the way your hair feels when I run my fingers through it
and when I hear your laugh, I feel the need to grab onto you, because if I don't, I will spiral into space, content with the thought of your happiness.
our conversations usually consist of 5 word sentences spread out throughout the day but honestly, I just love to see your responses

that day you gave me your number, I never really thought it would amount to anything
probably a response back to thank me for coming to the show, and that you're happy I enjoyed it
but when we started to have actual conversations
and you remembered my name the next time you saw me
i was back at square one,
hot, sweaty palms and all
shaking so hard that Taylor Swift would be proud.

but now when I see you,
its almost as if my equilibrium has balanced.
I'm comfortable around you
I see no reason to tremble in your presence
(even though that laugh still gets me).
and even though you are probably thinking that I'm just some girl who goes to your shows
I wish to be so much more.