Bipolar Artists

I thought I was getting worse. The sound of crashing metal is music to my ears. I need to consider the consequences of my bad behavior, but I don’t, cause I don’t give a fuck. Life sucks when they take a chainsaw and fell a cypress tree that is 200 years old to plant a palm tree for decoration. It pains me to the core of my being and I cry. Deborah has a part of the trunk in her office like a tombstone. Worse, yes I am. Everything is too complicated to understand – only the obvious burrows into minds like advertising, like murder or fires or burning lakes of oil or the index of radiation that is real. Everything else can’t be comprehended. Specialized and secret agendas we’ll never know. Newspapers without real news – Gucci and Rolex on sale. White linen sales, dealers unloading SUV’s. This department store, that department store, everything on sale but no one buying. My eyes see the sky falling, contaminated rain and oil wells on fire painting the air black, unbreathable, opaque. I painted my mind black and now only reflects the past breaking through consciousness like a darkened mirror. I look in the silver backed glass and see someone else. A disguise. A caricature of myself I hide behind. Know thy self. Ask why? The Greek philosophers knew better knowing it was impossible. No, I reinvented myself into something else, a statement, a façade, and a fake. Because I’m a failure, obsolete in my own skin. Black hair, and my black disguise. Metaphorically I am a black saint who lives with the burning ember eyes of the devil. There is no other way out now. I had my chance long ago. I was not asked to be born – defective. All Sales Final No Returns. If it is blemished, flawed or damaged burn it or bury it like so much garbage.