I'm not handling well this revolution
feels more like hell, like a demolition
maybe I'm just an artist afraid of her art

Yeah I should say that
it sounds sorta smart
but the truth is more tarnished
than a century-old silver set

it's that I'm already at the finish line
and I haven't even started yet

that's when...

My face hits my hands, fingers
tugging at tear stained hairs
and I can't catch my breath
for the dread

elbows on knees
please let us breathe
and my nose runs onto my shirt
the one I bought for inspiration
that's four years over-worn
complete with holes and
rings of perspiration

I feel so small
like a timid peace-time cannonball
crashing through a movie set wall
on some western film
with an actor I hate
and there's dusty me
needing to eat
and Mr. Noname hands me an apple
saying, "Darlin' it'll be ok.
Everyone wins on celluloid."
And I forget what that means
as I finger off the stem
snap...
and I am back in my flooded home again
with no apple and no movie
and no paper mache wall

and I still can't breathe at all

I ponder my assortment of wills
playing tic-tac-go
and the big salty tears spill
a pH balance that's inebriated and still
underrated and overstated
because I can't handle
my fated balcony seat
staring at my circles
with arms too weak
too weak to speak
too meek to repeat
defeat after countless defeat

and so I sink
back onto my hands
my tear-stained strands
of hair caressed by fingers
once blessed with healing powers
showers of cement

only now I'm lost in the liquid
unable to swim
one hand gets free
only to freeze mid-brim
and I'm there for eternity
a failed artist, a failed friend