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Call It Art

Well, here we go again, another day. I take out my guitar and start to play. I tell myself I’m gonna write a song, but everything I've written comes out wrong. The words they used to come so easily back when everything was new to me. But lately I can’t seem to find the time and when I do, I barely find the rhymes. I threw a bunch of lyrics on the floor. I posted poetry up on the wall. I published pointless gibberish that I said came from my heart. I put it in a frame and called it “Art”. An empty canvas withers all alone; a brush with greatness that may never come. It must be something broken in my brain or fifteen minutes sinking down the drain. I’ll say creative passion is my life, but I’ll succumb to any kind of vice. I may have finally numbed more than the pain and made more than the voices go away. I splattered pastel colors on some glass. I made pretentious garbage out of trash. I drew a big postmodern purple circle in the dark, I charged a price, and then I called it “Art”. There’re too many distractions in my mind it’s making inspiration hard to find, I’ll try and place the blame on someone else, but I put all the pressure on myself. They tell me I’m an artist, here’s the truth…I use the title more like an excuse. But then again, I guess I did create a fake who throws away more than he makes. I might die broken, lonely, and unknown you’ll finally recognize me when I’m gone. When everything I've worked for fades away and falls apart, I’ll paint my masterpiece and call it art.