Accepting what I cannot

Starved artists

Modern day artists do not write with quills

But we still go out by day drinking and overdosing on pills

Typewriters evolve into parents' laptops

Edgar Allen Poe still a chronically depressed poet's mascot

Medicine in the cabinet for when we have lost our flame

Don't you know the best of them burn out with fame?

Some of us never make it till we have long been gone

So, we live out our lives feeling as if we have done wrong

Trauma's been known to enhance our talents

Four hellish years of junior high have made me a maverick

Keyboards force me to look at the dirt under my nails

And I try to scrub the grime from under, but to no avail

I still read these carefully plucked out words in my abuser's voice

Still hear him lecture despite a delicate word choice

Despite mans cruelness we all wish to be rocked to sleep

Whether we lie awake in an empty bed or rest on frigid streets

Suffering is not limited to those who are perceived to be weak

But I still resent those who can afford the food that they eat

Starved artists aim to be the very thing that they hate

Because we are tired of buying dollar menu items with our last bits of gathered change