Words Of a Feather

The days of the artist are numbered

Art is slowly dying in its own war

As artists live life free of the shackles of society, free as a bird

They weren’t freed; they were given a choice

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Every day, artists produce something to entertain the common folk

Bringing excitement, horror, comedy, love, and pain to the people around them

Creating ideas meant to be adored and critiqued by all

Training every day of their lives to become something special

Yet the men in green cannot stand this nonsense

They cannot help these people

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First, the artists come to the big boys in charge of the men in green

They have the mentality, ideas, and ethic to reinvent the wheel

They could revolutionize art for what it is, or even start a stable gig

Sadly, this is not what the big boys want

These ideas are too “flimsy”, “stale”, “cliche”, “uninteresting”

Or maybe this isn’t what the big boys want

They don’t want something original, they don’t want a new color

The big boys see no way for original, creative art to make it in the real world

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Next, the artists come to the men in green

They create and produce not only art, but the life that is inspired by it

But the men in green are ruthless and vile with their green suits and covetous faces

They keep shooting down the artists while they keep standing on their pillars of art

The artists chase the spot of optimism they crave, the same optimism in their work

Only for everything to burn to the ground

These artists do not have the skills that pay the bills

They do not provide what the men in green want as they terrorize the streets

Burning every glimmer of color in sight

The war has a clear winner, a clear favorite

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Then, the artists chase the common folk

After not receiving support during their war, they need to rebuild themselves

Perchance these people will support them

Yet the common folk cannot afford to help the artists afford life

These people do not approve of this art that they call “filth”

There are too many imperfections and abhorrent concepts

It’s not “good enough”

Some may care, but no one’s help is enough to save them

These scraps of compassion will never repair any damage

The men in green haunt their lives until every ounce of life has been removed

Leaving only an empty husk of an artist

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Finally, the artists see what they must do to appeal to the men in green

They cannot continue their paint strokes of passion or sing forever more

They have wasted too much time acting to be able to create a stable reality for themselves

And even once they receive a sliver of recognition, it is not enough

To afford the lives of their fellow doctors and policemen and IT workers

The artists, their passion for art dies as it slowly dies in the futile war

The artists cannot even fini-