pride in his bohemian
lifestyle.
despising
labor of any sort.
keeping
the callous from hand
or foot.
a starving
artist,
his smile said, his
words
accumulating in an
endless
unfinished book.
the half
filled canvas,
the one song,
yet unsung.
they'll see my genius
one day,
he said,
lying to himself,
and those
around.
No comments:
Post a Comment