The Novelty of Artists

 
I’ve been introduced to cell windows and locked doors;
met too many cold cement floors;
said goodbye to mind-eradicating doses of nameless potions
leaving my system and a trail of saliva on the ground.
Things you’ll never have to remember.
Things I don’t know how to forget.
The clarity they said I lacked then
Now cemented in the visceral moments when
they checked my blood, hoping for evidence that it was drugs
Not my genes that sent me careening through the universe’s seams.
This brilliance
This novelty of artists
The chemical bridling these non-artists make mandatory for mundane survival.
I long for the mundane, because we artists know there is no room for what’s grandiose
in your mental genocide.
We know that ambition, giant dreams, hopes and conviction of talent are all
symptoms of dysfunction.
You dream.
We dysfunction.
And in all your marvelous stability, rationalism, logical, and healthy functioning
you play the part of martyr
while dragging our cerebral corpses
through the dirt of the earth
you demand we keep living in.

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