An Artist Against the Arts

Hundreds of poems have flown from my chest
And yet I cannot pinpoint a single one as “the best”
Or any that make me feel relatively at ease
Because people read my poems, but people aren’t who I intend to please
I intend to please myself
My poetry may be the gateway from my inner core to everyone else
But it still originates in my being
I cannot dress my words up in lies, so I need to be comfortable with the person everyone else is seeing
When they hear or see the words I choose
I don’t have a creative process; because I have nothing to lose
Actions speak louder than words, yet poets still aimlessly try
To write in a way that opens eyes
I am a poet who hates poetry, an artist against the arts
Don’t misinterpret- I can see its beauty. I just can’t handle how it affects my heart.
I close up when art finds its way in
A blank canvas is the most certain way to expunge all sin
Yet it always remains on display, painted in lines of hate and lust
Art takes the pain away then betrays your trust
For all the world to see; for all the world to judge
We have critics because beauty is something we can’t simply love
We have to rate it with star systems and thumbs
Even though we should be rating it with the number of times our heart flutters and thumps
At the way our lips curl into a smile or our tears make their debut
My art should be judged by how affectively it connects to you
That’s why I raise the finger two positions away from the thumb at the idea of rating work
Constructive criticism usually just means that someone has a license to hurt
And yet my hypocrisy must show, because I insult art more often than anything else
Including my own
The premise of art is expression, and yet we don’t give others that freedom
So what if your poems sound like a third grader wrote them? Someone might still grow if they read them.
Or no one will.
All that matters is that the artist grows, their heart keep from standing still
Expression is vital
But it is not required that anyone enjoys your artistic recital
So scream your poem, play your song, sketch a stick figure, turn on the radio and sing along
As loud as you can, as colorful as possible- and expunge hurt from your chest
Because I believe in a world where poets don’t feel like they have to pinpoint a single piece as being “the best”

An Artist Against the Arts

Chrissy Croft

Joined May 2011

  • Artist
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