Everything in our lives is writeable
But did we script in free-will?
Without recognizing consequences
I talk to God but the sky is empty
I followed philosophers who were out-dated
My lovers do not know how to
Protect me, from my worst enemy
Who is the breaking of idealism
The broken wheel of pragmatism
And cynicism of aging in the school
Of real-world hard knocks
Can you understand? That we loved
Our tragedies as poor substitutes to living?
That we needed deeper lows to
Experience and appreciate higher highs
What is an artist, they are who
Most desire the things that will destroy
Them in the end, like a fanaticism to beauty.
“I talk to God but the sky is empty.” Damn, that’s good. And I really appreciate the final stanza; it’s an almost poetic definition of artist.
Hmm I’ll have to meditate on what you have said here, though thank you for the compliment.