When The Artist Gets It Wrong
For long and often
I have been compelled
To thrust my ideas forth onto the page.
Long collections and high stacks of notebooks
Make up abstract chronicles of my psyche.
Have I put these words down before?
Am I but a pawn of repetitions?
A nature I cured myself into?
Is my corner my own?
I was long fascinated by Marx,
Now I know what he meant.
What I have done and yet to do,
With all of life’s potential and conclusions
in their loud, auspicious ways.
I cannot ask for help,
Nor can I describe the sensation.
Ever so more I try,
And ever so often I fail.
Cannot an individual live,
In his own personal state of revolution?
Whom do I ask?
Who do I tell?
What truth is there
now that a key board is a soapbox?
Little it seems,
But I was wrong,
I was very wrong.