You Can't Eat the Praise

So often the expectations of society

eat the true expectations

of the artist’s heart.

Yes, I can stuff that knickknack full of

more doohickeys for cookie crumbs all day,

but the hours you’ve stolen from my life

has shaved another century off my

creative soul.

I bet Hem’s Paris was a |

lot more fun even when he

was poor, but what a life it must

have been once he didn’t have to

starve for his art anymore.

And the harsh truth about your

literary aspirations,

your readers are only

as loyal as the last great

piece you wrote. You can’t eat

the praise even if it comes from

eighty thousand followers.

But I will scratch my words on the wall

of your prison cell regardless, in defiance

of your heartless societal entropy.