The true artist takes control
of things the simple man couldn't understand,
and shouldn't understand.
He expresses the one true freedom he has,
the freedom to create the world he sees and
express the world he either loves or hates;
sometimes both but sadly the latter.
It’s the dream world.
Every painting, be it nightmare or dream,
is sourced from the cesspool.
The bacteria that festers in the hearts and
souls of the troubled man
from the swamp of misery, woe, and frustration
is the sole fountain that springs the freedom of expression.
It’s the glue that holds the broken man together,
and the gravity that makes him crumble.
Caught between contempt and admiration, a man
can be crafted into the diamond he wants to be,
but disguised as the coal he knows he is;
buried in the pit with the rest of the dirty fools
who live in solidarity as worthless rocks.