The War of Art: Mediocrity
I’ve cried and created
Catalogued and cremated
Run and dashed
Sabotaged and learned
Spilled over, lost my place
Been ignored, won the war
And now, it’s time.
It’s time.
This is me.
I can see my veins in the mirror.
This is not something I’m accustomed to.
My own art tastes prosaic and common in my mouth
And drapes me
In a glorious, formless potato sack.
“You are rough around the edges,” they say
But when am I not?
When am I not tasting like something else
That you want a lot more?
When is this greater than the sum of songs we sing to ourselves?
Give me a reason beyond.
Find.
Find.
Find.
1/16/11
