Art Is On Its Deathbed

Wed, 12/17/2014 - 15:45 -- Komere


I’m a hopeless romantic
With a heart of glass
I play the game of love
But it’s a pain in the ass
But what do others think?
Dare I ask?
White boy rhyming
Such a tragic apostasy
You’re giving me shit when you can’t even drop a beat
How about you get off my back
Just something I’d like to see
“Shut up faggot”
Are you referring to little old me?
I don’t know how you go on believing
Things you aren’t even seeing
But I’m starting to get the feeling
You’re not upset with me and
You’re the one whose broken
But hell, we all are
Why didn’t they tell us life would be so hard?
“Now you’re just whining”
Bitch please, don’t start
Nail me to that cross because of my creativity
Artists, realists, and thinkers are now the token minority
Taken down bit by bit by the cookie cutter majority
And there are stories of all the ones
Who were praised for the way they thought
People didn’t groan at their puns
But instead they were taught by the masses
But now when we think others run
Away, away
How do we survive day to day?
Knowing that we’re growing up to be this way
The decay of a society
Whose sole focus is propriety
People demanding you give to charity
When they themselves are miserly
But could this change
Could we stop
Just for one second
And pander to the thought
To expel this sickness
Upon ourselves which we brought


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