an artist in so-called self slavery

i am an artist.
i am free to express myself in every stroke, splat, line.
my pencil is my sword, my brush, inspiration
i breathe in remnants of the essence of renaissance, nouveau
baroque which is old, which is new
and the words of aristotle and tagore
resonate faintly in my mind.

in my dreams i am brightly coloured
with pink hair
and a green skirt.
i care less about the world's adversity
but that is because i am in a dream.

in reality my needs overwhelm my freedom
i am forced to kneel at society's feet as they beckon
and i am uncreative, jaded
the weight of the world is upon my shoulders.


i am an artist of my time, this time.

my favourite hello, my hardest goodbye.

i trudged through the streets,
tearing.

i winced at the chain at my feet.
i escaped.
battered, holding on to what is left of the truth
i did not deny, i held it up
"Revolution!"
i screamed, i whispered hoarsely.
and the sun felt good this time,
i was burning,
but the pain was far better
than the pain that festered in my soul.
for months, years. finally free.

i walked some more and the air was fresher from where i started.
i tripped and fell
and i see a hand in front of me
and i looked up

and i saw you.