When The Artist Gets It Wrong

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

constantly playing

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.