Don’t call me an artist
I won’t stoop to such pretentiousness

that statement echoing through my mind
all morning, no matter how loud the music;
so clear, remembering every strange look,
those scouls as I peddled poetry,
the true opinion art in america
a freeloading self-involved nuisance
among too many circles of society

spears and arrows, from all angles
attacking me
as they continue the monotony
looking down upon those of us
armed only with pens, paints and ideas
finally being forgotten among
the stone monoliths of want

to stand, open the piercings, climb the walls
and fight for our piece of ground
that is the nobility history books are filled with
but seems to me there is nothing of worth here
to risk my life for
in this home of who once were the brave,
no interest in charging into their silly game
of spy vs spy

there is always a conscience, though,
obligating my duty to
repay the land I
reaped lust from for too long
destroyed
then left in the name of righteousness;
doing otherwise
is no different than shooting holes in the boat
and jumping ship

I am almost halfway there
fully competent that my quickest years
are an inspiration, now, to draw from
knowing the world will so easily change
not through my words
but through everyone’s own words

I am an artist
proud to be humble
even under the weight of your boot

af

(written on computer)