the accidental artist

 

he went for years drifting

and floating along a stream of nothing

creatively bankrupt without knowing it

no interests beyond drinking, listening to music

watching films, playing games

consuming other artists work

 

he felt a twinge of greatness

this irritated him no end

a mass delusion

an unanswerable itch

one that he eventually scratched

got a rash

and caught a bug

 

he wanted to make music

first for fun, then for money

then for fun

he would make tracks quickly

work in bursts

enjoy creating sounds from nothing

and stringing them together

 

the search of beauty was his goal

to share that with others

to show that he was holding a candle

one of skill, talent, intelligence

not something to be envied

but respected

 

then he wanted to paint

draw lined pictures, structures

attaching them together, 3d shapes

put together in a manic, subconscious order

a great work ethic allowed some mud to stick

opening gallery shows, beer was required

for the accidental artist

 

he read bukowski and loved his

language, his personality, his style

his joy and hatred of people and life

he felt that too

so he became a writer

poems, short stories

the lines were short, some poems over

before they began

but he enjoyed reading them back

sometimes wondering where they even

came from

 

so to compose, paint or write

he wasn’t sure but why choose just one

he’s being paid to write this right now

although the people paying him for it

may not be aware

at the moment words are just spurting out

determined to prove he is the smartest

he’s just getting into his groove

the accidental artist

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