Monday, February 15, 2016


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

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