A real Artist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Empty Pockets full of Dreams

Submitted: February 20, 2011

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Submitted: February 20, 2011

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I´ve never fitted in.

Never, ever.

Not in this life.

Not yet.

I don´t try to fit in, never have, but sometimes

I´m forced to fit in.

There are times I´m bending.

These are those times I´m right in there,

not wanting to be there but still being part of something.

Making a living or at least fulfill the illusion of needing to make a living.

Talking to people, explaining myself to people, apologizing to people for things that happened just because it´s impossible to tell the truth.

These are usually the times I´m trying to destroy myself.

Self-sabotaging is what they call it.

The times when I´m on the tightrope, not knowing if I´ll fall again or finally can make it this time.

The times when I´m surrounded by empty bottles, surrounded by pain and fear.

The times when I´m not afraid to die but not being keen on living either.

The times when I paint and write the best stuff I´ve ever painted or written before.

The curse of the real artist.

The one that´s only waisting time

and lives from rhyme.

What would they give

to be kissed by a muse and be

besotted dayly by wine.

They all try to be or think so deep,

trying to turn their Ego dim.

Just when he can´t sleep,

no one wants to change places with him.


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