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.