Spill your
deepest, darkest secrets.
If you’re an
artist isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?
If you live in
a bubble how will you ever get to the truth?
Perhaps the
reason you’re not able to write isn’t because of age, but because you’ve locked
your life up so tight you’ve suffocated your muses and turned away from the
light.
Being an artist
isn’t a calling like I once believed it to be.
In fact being
an artist is less of a declaration and more of a reparation that will never be
paid to those who are actually owed them.
Our world falls
on its face when absolute power corrupts absolutely and if you don’t know what
I’m talking about just look in the mirror when sucking in your gut.
I spilled the
truth on my new Cashmere sweater and no amount of club soda is going to get the
stain completely out.
Sometimes in
the middle of the night I wake up to find myself sleeping like a little lamb.
Other times I
wake up to find myself missing, only a note left on the pillow scrawled by an insolent
child or incorrigible monster.
And you think
you got it bad well trust me we’re all either dying of cancer or know someone
who is or has already given up their ghost to this profit making angel of death.
Dying is big business
and there’s no getting around that especially if you prefer to live on the dark
side and your sexual proclivities harken back to an age when consent was not so
ironclad.
Do I like what
I’m writing?
Well to be perfectly
honest that’s not the point.
Do I agree with
the words I’m spilling onto this screen?
Again that’s beside
the point.
I’ve been told
the truth will set you free.
It’s also been recommended
that I get a good lawyer if I decide to testify on my own behalf.
The evidence
was circumstantial, but public opinion was irrefutable so I sucked it up and
pretended I was sorry for whatever crimes they said I committed.
I no longer
believe truth is in the eye of the beholder not when the beholder suffers from
macular degeneration and rose tinted glasses have gone out of style.
Go ahead and
tell me something I don’t already know.
There’s plenty
I could still learn as her frozen eggs call out my name and I do my best to
ignore them because I’m nobody’s daddy now.
And you thought
you could outdraw me when nothing could be further from the truth.
The only thing
that dwarfs the talent I believed I once possessed is John Hancock’s signature
on the Declaration of Independence, but I’m over that now as I learn to live
with my artistic irrelevance and the uncertainty of another brand new day.
Charles Cicirella
2/15/16
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