Honesty VII

Honesty Part VII

I smear paint to feel sane. Like it’s a game. Do it right you win fame. But fame for an artist is all in the name. Signature at the bottom of a piece decides whether its priceless or worth pennies. Forgot to mention that it’s a game you can’t win. Out just as quick as you were in. And selling your soul is a sin. Don’t follow your heart and you might as well give in. Play dead. But forget you were playing and let it go to your head. How sad. But artists aren’t remembered till their death. So I'm racing for the finish line. Mean while, trying to by time with a signature. There is no bigger fear then failing at the things you hold most dear. Like failing her. Don’t want to think of it. An artist greatest inspiration. Love. Or an artist ultimate downfall. Love. A surrealists dream. Sent from above. A realists notion. Bound to know of. Knew he would know love. At least once in everyone’s life its something they can be sure of. They’ll love. And whether they need to paint it on canvas or sing it out loud they will show love. But hate can also send you fumbling for a fix. Choosing dark colors to mix. Horrible images that your mind can transfix on almost make you crazy. Disturbed and emotional as your painting. But its all meaningless if you don’t really have the feeling. Can't fake it. Can't fool us. Can't get off with an explanation. Cause the work always speaks for itself. Always go with a true feeling you’ve felt.