Sometimes I wonder if being an artist is something I call myself to feel like I have meaning.
If being an artist seems like a cop out, a lie like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing telling you what you want to hear, connecting with you emotionally to later destroy your well being without a second thought.
I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a poet, a pariah, the who, what, where of your mind asking why is he able to use his words to manipulate my thoughts and control my passions, my desire to want......
I am an outcast, lost soul the feel alone among my own kind. Left to rot in the bellies of the worms like a fungus to you people I am nothing more than.....an outcast.
A lost soul....My soul is lost not in faith but in the words that are not of this mind, this body, this spirit, but of creation, manifestation, I am in search of liberation from these many levels of hell I have discovered and claimed to be called my thoughts. My thoughts are hell bound.
I am lost in my anger that flows molten rocks of hate to cast down those who stand against me. Blackness that infects my heart like a parasite with time grows and increases raging passion to spill the blood of mindlessness rage and unspoken pain where a strong faith is now extinct. Only hollowness.
I am the dieing voice that calls out frantically for the bleeding to come to an end. No control over the mindless pain spilling blood from rage that only means to find its way to the peaceful Zion’s of the mind. The soul of the once weak-minded man is found now shown the truth of oneself.
The poet whose spoken words elevate possibilities in hope to make amends for the fallen. Eradicate despair to become a divine whole who knows who I is. The Artist.
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