A Cleverly concealed Madness.
I watch in awe as The People confuse their Sickness
with a Cure. Greedily licking the remnants of Poison
from their cheetoh stained fingertips, in fear of wasting
the slightest drop. Why is it that no one sees the Irony?
How this World is a Runaway Train that will not Stop.
At times I wonder whether my Art is a cleverly concealed
form of Madness, or if this Madness is simply a cleverly
concealed form of Art? as I sit twisting words like a
Noose which seems senseless on the surface, but reveals
The secrets of My Heart.
The People love what they are told to love, and I hate it.
They would hate it too if they understood the lack of control
involved. Yet who am I to destroy the comforting illusions of
the Mass? ( Life for each is a puzzle lived, or solved.)
And Hell, for all I know maybe the Sickness is the Cure?
If only we could learn to appreciate the Madness in anothers
art; perhaps we could all be Saved?
(from the boredom of ourselves.)