Thursday night closes in on Friday, and I can't sleep; they won't let me. No matter how dark, or how silent, I can't escape them. They thrive beneath my eyelids and in the deep recesses of my ears, so I try replacing them. Art, writing, music, I'll try anything to give me a moment's peace tonight. Sometimes, I think writing poetry or blogging will bring the issues more to the front, where I can deal with them; I'm almost invariably wrong. Communication works, but only if someone actually reads and understands what and why I write. This is an impossible situation. I'm confronted with a growing list of problems, a slipping set of tools, and a profound lack of an audience. I refer to my readers often on this blog, but I doubt their numbers.
Talking to you, my dear readers, is like vandalism. Few people notice, and most of those that do look only for flaws and ugliness in what I've done. My honest art seems lost in a sea of apathy and misunderstanding. These posts and my poems are my outlet to be understood; I believe most artists want to be noticed more than anything else. To extend the vandalism analogy, anyone can go to the Hirshhorn Art Galley and see purple painted stacks of tires or aluminum foil, but I'm stuck painting on nearby walls with as many colors as I can get my hands on. No matter how hard I try, or what I paint, people just seem much happier looking at grey concrete and tinted glass than the care I take with my art. I am not saying that all grafitti is art: I'm not "Cool 'Disco' Dan," trying to make a reputation off a hastily scrawled name; I just feel some art is ignored because of fickle fashions and a lack of access by artists to an appropriate audience.
I love my readers for the attention they pay me, but I'm greedy for more. If I can't make famous pages in publications, I will settle for this blog, and your attention. Tell me how you feel, honestly; I don't lie to you.
Am I worth knowing?
Am I worth reading?
Which is more monstrous, my poetry, or my face (for those who've seen me)? I know it's close.
Would you just like me to shut up?
Does my writing or acquaintance smother you?
Do I deserve better?
Do I deserve worse?
Do I deserve love or solitude?
Is it too late?
Are tears a sign of weakness?
How much is enough?
Honesty or Resilience?
Finally, should I feel the point of hope, or the pommel of mercy?