Art is lost.

All the food is deadly
and the art makes me feel melancholy
not because of the subject matter
more so all the chatter.

Our bodies are sick
and our minds barely tick
expanding mansions
built upon fashions
that make me ill
as I hand the cashier more money for the till.

Art is lost
writing on windows after the frost
words are washed and reused
thoughts are duplicated and mass produced.

And a smile is asked
that’s why my face is mostly masked
my mind slipped through
overlooked by your brilliant crew
I won’t create sparkles in the sunlight
or wizards in flight
a child through a dream
could dream what those seem.

No my mind will challenge
and in return I’ll fail.
Failing is better than succeeding
if it means creating originality.
Rather than fan art shoveled in their faces
because money
right?