NaPoWriMo day 8

Self Portrait of the Artist

I was part of an art collective
consisting only of myself
and the art was to kill myself
as slowly as possible

I reacted to bad reviews
by falling into slumps
it was exactly what they wanted
it was deeply ironic art.

I’d let night’s brushstrokes broadly
baste me, and pierce me like a sharp
I’d poison myself through it
until sleep was a death

and sometimes you ask artists
why they do what it is they do
and they’ll say it’s not a choice for them

well it wasn’t for me either
I was nothing but derivative
so when summer turned its face to me

play-acting at the end of May
you bloomed like blood in water
when I’d given up all hope

it was then, with careful though
and a love i’d never known
that I forgot my life before
and the exhibition closed.


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