These old artist stereotypes are alive and well.
Cleary the culture can't support human values
without twisting them down into the uncanny valley,
but it's too late to complain, isn't it?
I chose it.
It's Wednesday and I have $19.02 in my bank account,
that's fine, I guess,
just enough for food and gas to get me to the weekend's gigs.
Deadly thoughts come artistically now
poverty, distractions, romantic sentiments, and addictions
all cause and prevent what feels inevitable, yet is impossible.
The seeds I've sown, bare the fruits I've earned,
and they are ripe with a sadness sickness
that reveals itself most pointed when meaning meets it's costs.
My emotions were manipulated by dogma for so long
They still terrify me, all of them from then,
but I wonder what minor god I seek now in my suffering.
Tumbling the rabbit hole of the artist's life,
the will to really live finds me again.
I find the beauty of it all in a wider frame.
It's there waiting for me every time.