The Last American Artists: I can hear your plight When you feel a note has been wasted, When your point isn’t getting across, The struggle Of a story that has been told, Repeatedly, And barely heard. I can hear When you call forth from purgatory Begging For a shorter sentence, Or at least, For recognition. You really think that no one does. You push your lungs, A little harder, Stretch your vocal chords, A little further, Strain your diaphragm, Until it wrings out your kidneys Like a wet sock. Hoping, Desperately, That this one last push, Will make all the difference. And most of the time It won’t. I understand your pain, For it has always been, The pain of talented men. The genius, Uninterpretable To its current generation. The heavy lifting, That carries on Unrewarded. This lost art Of strife. This is the human condition. This is the last true art. To sacrifice The body, To the cause. To no avail, Simply to tell the story, For the sake of the story, And not for its writer. To reap the blues, And sew the callous, To bleed American.
Posted on: Thu, 08 Jan 2015 04:02:19 +0000
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