Death of an Artist

Earn somethin’ to live on
While the livin’ leaves you numb.
Trade a novel for a proof-reader’s pen,
An easel for a keyboard.

Go work.
Come home.

Will you
Create and starve your stomach,
Or eat and starve your soul?

We’re the casualties of the system no one sees.
There’s no stepping stones for an artist’s resume;
No job experience can make a painting sell.

You can’t afford to quit this corporate drug,
But your characters die
And the music stops
And the pictures fade
While the world bends its will
To keep you working.

Is this where heroes are born, or broken?
So much for the American Dream.


Sorry for how depressing this poem is.  It was inspired by how I was feeling about my job at the moment, but I rather liked how it turned out and decided to share it despite its pessimism.

Please share your thoughts :)


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