Thursday, April 26, 2012

Poetry: Fine Arts Major

He’s still,
An island in a river of meandering
flesh that drifts from
point to pointlessness,

A bitter flood of
the mundane
digging deeper
into the rut of

of life cycles
forged by bread-winning
and role modeling,
stage playing for children,

picket fences painted white
only on one side
Because it’s the outside that matters.

He’s still,
Watching the canyon
of unhappy, misspent
lives yawn wider

and wider still,
absorbing more of the
whose young minds were filled with
dollar signs and

thoughts that they would succeed,
shown only that painted side of the fence;
Now they find the groove
is a rut

because everyone followed the
dream of marketability, and the wave
left them at the bottom of the tide pool.

He’s still,
the successfully shut out
writhe around him, fish
on the shore of a river that rushed
finance over love,
career over dream,
and they flounder, gasping in the
confines of cubicles and
clerical jobs

Wailing against the wasted years
of  computer scienceand
business classes that back
the useless paper in their hands,

against community service that
someone did better, someone
did more.

He’s still,
as those who cracked their heads
on the bottle neck of popular
careers wedge themselves

into the muck of their chosen fields,
wishing all the while they could go back
when they wanted to sing
or act, or dance, and someone had told them
that wasn’t an economically viable dream

Be a doctor or banker, be
a moneymaker.
And ignorant, they had listened
told themselves   

that this was what they wanted
realistic income – stability
over satisfaction.

He’s still,
and he smiles,
the pencil in his hand and
sketchbook on his lap

as he draws the world around him
in shades of gray.

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