Art doesn’t feel like what it should be.
A feeling of freedom free from this world of social and emotional constraints
There is no freedom of flight in fancy
Or a direction of love and humanity
Or even of fear and wretchedness
Instead I am left facing the skulls of critics
Something that was meant to be wholly individual has now become a place to put another intellectual pedestal
When does Art cease to be free from restraints?
Is it when one is depressed and lonely?
Or when they have finally committed that act of suicide
Van Gogh, we failed you
Basquait, I wish we had properly known you
But instead all we did was use you and monetise you
Disregarding the true nature of the pain in your fame
McQueen, though we hail you, we did not know the true meaning of bearing your name
Art is nought but a game to some
Too many a route to fame
But there is nothing to gain once all have wet their lips with your name