Young Ones on Side of Cliff

Tricky patterns in my mind
tip me over into empty Corvairs
going off cliffs with sharp razor
blades flying in my face, spraying
my skull into a full eagle nest
where the young ones are
stuttering out the fact that
I can’t do what I want to do
(to be an artist despite having
no talent for that stupid mission),
and all I can do is avoid the
alcohol that was my false
medicine and hope that some
powerful being will show me
sometime that some thing
I might do might do some
thing to make me feel okay.


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  1. #1 by sixthsymph on July 1, 2011 - 5:00 am

    I think the feelings you express in this poem are universal among artists. Yes, artists :)!

    • #2 by Carl on July 1, 2011 - 8:55 pm

      Thank you for your comment. You are a kind artist!

  2. #3 by Kay Camden on July 1, 2011 - 8:54 am

    I agree with sixthsymph. You have an artist’s soul. Compare to mine (an imposter).

    • #4 by Carl on July 1, 2011 - 8:58 pm

      You cannot think yourself imposter at anything! Thank you for commenting.

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