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?