I have been crippled, lately

Wondering if all types of art

All types of music

All pieces of poetry

Are self-indulgent little

Messy pieces of inadequacy

Limited to one perspective

Desperately crying out

For someone to listen

Poor little art babies,

Crying about living

I wonder if they knew

How selfish they were being?

Or maybe this voice–

This booming commander–

Is just the voice

Of my bossy, mean-streaked sister

The one who treated me like a

Monster, while acting like a

Dictator. She hates all forms of

Creativity, and whenever I get the itch

To make something, I hear her

Laughing, cruelly

Mocking me

“Who do you think you are?

Somebody special?

You’re just a fat dumb loser idiot

Made of nothing but

Pity and self-loathing”

Maybe that’s why I feel

The need to make art

So that there was something

For me to look at,

Something for me to listen to,

Something for me to eat

Other than all the world’s


I don’t think it’s


To try to be healthy,

Or to try to be

Something extraordinary

I think people like me

Ought to be celebrated,

Not treated

Like selfish freaks

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