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.
stillfugue 
#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!
#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.