Art

I wouldn’t call it art.

After dark

When the brain starts

Running

Like a hamster on a wheel

Only place to go

Is the same place that it starts

I wouldn’t call it art.

When it pounds

On the walls 

Of your skull

But you can’t let it out

No, you can’t let it out

Because it’s not for them

To hear, or see or feel

And the voices are too loud

I wouldn’t call it art.

When they’re far

And the rain starts to fall

Gently on your guitar

And the strings get rusty

Your fingers fall gently

Making figures from a chart

And with each pluck

Comes a sound 

A sound like a

Like a…

Breath of fresh air in the fall

Like the crunch of leaves

While running to catch a ball

You can feel it as you strum

But the words, they never come

So 

I wouldn’t call it art.

Because words I write

Aren’t as good as his

And the flow and format

Aren’t as easy to predict

You’ve glimpsed through the eyes

But you haven’t seen the pics

Taken

Each time while enjoying the time

Which isn’t often lately

Lost in the mind

Lost in the time

Lost in the snow

And the needles of the pines

Lost in wherever I can go

To run out the doors

Of the room I’m currently in

And that is…

Not something I like to admit.

So I wouldn’t call it art.

Art should be something

That warms your heart

Not a mess of nostalgia

Coming from an adult

This is unstructured

And repeated, every part

Over and over

Til the audience yawns

And decides to depart

Til it’s just you

By yourself

Sitting alone in the dark

With a collection of pages

That you wrote some years ago

Before your face was prickly

And your knees aching and wrinkly

Now you’re surrounded by a pile

Pages of your thoughts

Scattered all around you

But who cares, they’re just thoughts

Maybe someday when you pass

Someone will read them from the start

Stories of a lifetime

Stories of the past

Stories from before

All that matters is what’s next

Maybe then they might stop

Maybe then they’ll call it art

Because it’s different than the current

And there’s emotions in those marks

And the feelings were authentic

But never processed, or well-thought

So crumple it up

And trash it 

Because I wouldn’t call it art.