Dead Artists Out On Avenues

A poem about life in the creative arts

Writers write with the blood they drew, 

Singers softly sing the blues, 

Painters paint in paler hues; 

Dead artists out on avenues. 

Their shattered dreams are crystal shards, 

Scattered gleams on boulevards, 

The empty ream of night grows dark, 

An endless stream of falling stars. 

Now hopeless with their breaking hearts, 

Now aimless, where can they restart? 

Plastic bags and shopping carts, 

Homeless, dying for their art. 

Mad and sick, their thoughts are useless, 

Fingers grip onto new muses, 

Drinks they sip, then worse abuses, 

Dejected, they design their nooses.