Poetry / Struggled Artist

I’m not rich and empty,
or poor and full.
I’m vastly and mostly
tired of everything.
The “what to wear,”
and “who to bring.”
They’re never gonna love all of me,
Just what they take, and that they can keep.

I’m running out of running shoes.
You say I’m growing apart from you-
Because I’m no longer supporting
What you have “to prove.”

Your daily goose shots and wine
after the clock strikes 5-
I’d rather write these words
To quote: “feel alive.”

Your restrictions on art
are making you blind.
Such strict rules for something
you can’t define:
“For passion you must struggle,
Starve daily for rent,
For art you must regret
Any dollar you’ve spent.”

It seems you’re never gonna love all of me…
Just what you take, and that you can keep.

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