Wanting to be something, specific

Never reaching that point

Thoughts have plagued

Forever my life, my mind

My therapist said ‘Maybe

The content isn’t as important

As you think it is’

Implying that I can fill the space

With nearly any of the ideas

That come and go

Remembered and forgotten

Simultaneously between

Grand dreams of adventure

Never persisting beyond

The artist, the creative process


But in a world of technology

In blogs, constant opinion

And dead media

How can one man

Call himself an artist

And another just a wannabe?

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