artist
as in one who creates art?
no, you've got me wrong
i'm just a rat
trapped in the corner of my mind
escaping through my pen
into a room full of cats
just losing myself between pages
hiding in the breaks of my verse
the pauses before barrages
of lyrical desires
some so strong that i snap
beating down the door of a diner
robbing them, for a waitresses pen
some napkins, then bolting down the street again
huddled on a corner
furiously trying to defuse this bomb
this ticking in my head won't quit
and the pounding of the freight-train i just hopped
won't drowned it out, no matter how loud
see i'm writing these tales and riding this rails
going nowhere, somewhere, anywhere
only ending up back there
where everything hurts
and everything started
running from my brain
like profanity
running from my mouth
and all i can think is
artist?
this?
is being an artist?
like van Gough or Monet'
starving or crazy
no thanks
i'll stick to the train tracks
wait for the call backs
the ones that never come
just wishing i could get some
room
to breath
and be free
of my head
just a moment of silence
one single solitary second
without these words chasing me
through this world
the one i created
with long nights, bar fights
and too many political science classes
wish i could be oblivious to life
to my aching stomach
or this cold ass town i just got dumped in
but then again
i could rest on my laurels as a poet
instead of being a crackpot
with too much verse, rhythm, rhyme
and never enough time
so just give me some pages
hand me a pen
i'll lose my mind, find it
and then do it again
don't call me an artist
don't call me profound
just got a mind full of concrete
so i'm laying it down...

(you see it's just that
i was brought
into this world
limbs kickin'
lungs screamin'
mouth spittin'
mind streamin'
i've gotta run with it
or get left behind
i've gotta show ya'll this
or lose my mind)