The Artist

Big dreams of a lighted stage,

a songbird in a rusted cage:

the blessed artist is turning the page

for the ink to spell out all of his rage.

The artist: a poet, a beggar, a whore,

perverted virgin who cuts it raw.

Clenching a cigarette sits on the floor,

dying to die a part of folklore.

Simple pleasures are far too complex,

the artist enjoys to live to perplex.

Carries his head to turn all the necks,

he finds sheer beauty in what others reject.

Offering truth is a job for the brave.

The artist awaits the cold calm of his grave.

Once a petulant child that refused to behave,

now - just another one passivist slave.

The artist paints a sordid picture,

berates and hates the rotten structure.

His fragile mind - a compound fracture -

is longing for a long due rapture.

The artist says he's biding time,

swiftly slipping from his prime.

But who will spare him a dime

when day will come when he can't rhyme?

Symphony In Gray Minor

I sit and paint a picture grim:
an ashtray filled up to the brim
of joys that came and stayed and passed.
Why did they go away so fast?

Why can't I read a stranger's glare
as they walk past but walk and stare?
Is there something they can see,
a something that's unknown to me?

Why can't I store the sunshine's kiss?
In winter's frost a thing I'll miss,
along with innocence of rain.
When will it speak to me again?

Why can't I write the future's lines
to promise dialogue divine?
To write myself into a dream
without the same old minor theme.

I sit and paint but colours fade
until they all resemble gray.
I know the canvas won't forgive
the brush, for spilling all its grief.