i am not capitalized

 a stream of consciousness flows from somewhere that is neither here nor there is a way to write automatically if only i could find it in these lines of stiff, and brittle brushes


my fingertips touch the texture crusted with paint, and grime,


i sleep beneath
unused canvases stored away
awaiting the vivid colors 
                                 that never come
here any more, 


staying up late 
with empty bottles, and bent cigarettes.


i am (painting) in a cave,
i am (typing) in a tomb


Without conscious awareness of the content herein. 


i have bloodied my fingers on strings,
i am a dust drawn man with skeletal hands.


i am talentless, and asleep.
i am not capitalized,
i am talentless, and asleep.

Every Artist a killer,
every Poet is a thief,


We would kill our Inspiration
just to sing about the grief.