sensibilities

all poets and painters
are poor melodramatic
no-good assholes,
tortured by nothing
but an endless
struggle for words
or visions,
for revelations
that ring true
certain chords
in certain persons
who certainly pertain
in entertaining charm,
interesting sweetness
mostly made up of
feverish dreams
and grandiose
delusions
fabricated
in a self-absorbed
la-la-land,
this self-imposed
prison ward
where the
sane,
saints
and innocents
would beg and plead,
desperately voice their
needs and wants
but the so-called
artist,
the poor
melodramatic
no-good asshole
simply waits
in silence
to be set
free.

I just never get it,
do I?

(17. nov 2010)