I feel envious of people who are comfortable proclaiming 'I am an artist'.
Art is what they eat, breath, shit and admire fully. It's in vogue. It makes me sick.
It's reserved for the children of privilege and the ones unfamiliar with failure.
I am reluctant. I don't believe in the sanctity of this path.
That in which reward comes from having certain people admire or hate you.
I grew up dirt poor. I don't want to feel that way again.
So, I try to find a way
the only way I know how
to work, to build something strong
something that will be able to support and sustain
a place to thrive
Still, after everything
small successes. hard decisions. countless rejections.
When all else has been battered away
the first thing I see in the distance
like a buoy after being punished
by 365 days of salty, debilitating waves
is the promise of being born again
through a hunger to create
It is the only thing that can revive me
Each time I forget, I get broken down so that I can see again