Sold to feel the same in another way

should i be trying for something?
am i trying to be or am i just trying?
creation feels contrived regardless
of my feeling during creating.
i lokk upon what i’ve created
as being stolen, but then again,
who wants to steal shit?
maybe a scatologist?
but i don’t suppose
there are many out there
in search of a shit
i’ve regurgitated.
yes, i’ve puked up shit,
but so have many others.
they just so happen
to market their vomit
as priceless experience.
it’s a damned shame
i’ve fallen for experience
felt in another way.

Wiping my gas

i can wipe my ass,
masterfully i might add,
with toilet paper,
but when it comes to
regular blank paper,
i’m blocked.
it’s like artist’s constipation.
i don’t want to continue to wipe
if it’s just going to leave me raw.
i don’t mind some things raw,
but my ass is not one of them.
there’s only so much shit
one can push until
it’s all just gas.

Living to make-believe understanding

Since I was 5 years old, I’d always had a compulsion to make, but that doesn’t mean I was destined to become a creative. I just happened to like art-related things. And just because I’ve got a diploma in an art related field, doesn’t mean shit.

Or maybe it means exactly that? No, that can’t be true. Who in the right mind wants to hire someone for their shit? A coprophile? A farmer? Either way, I’m not a big enough shit, nor produce enough to satisfy the needs of supply and demand. I create because it’s fun to imagine. Now I’m feeling pressure that I must create things that hold retail value with no real intrinsic value.

I still live to pretend, maybe imagine the ideal. But I’ve noticed, this can be harmful to one’s own mental health. Living contrary to reality is an open request for hardship, but can also be a source of inspiration. I think the problem is that the environments I’m immersed in do not encourage my creative tendencies. Therefore, I’m left creating halfhearted ideals whose force is expunged but misconception. Or, I just create when I want to create because making things when I feel like it usually turn out better than those that are forced.

It seems that I’ve spent my life creating something do not understand. But according this newly acquired paper, I know something. Then what’s with all this doubt?

Making the beautiful death I enjoy

what?
what do you mean I’m
expendable?
you mean to tell me that my efforts are in vain?
well, that cannot be.
i’m real and i have something to say.
you can’t brush me off,
i exist.
no, you’re right,
i won’t be along for long.
so what’s this effort?
i make for now, but i cannot make for the future.
coming to realization of my dispensability,
i must create for myself.
if i create for others, i might as well just not create.
i’d much rather create my death,
than let another.

Certified shit maker

I enjoy talking shit because it is something I make on the daily. I’m capable of such talk since it’s been my life’s work to produce such copious amounts of it. Oh yeah, and I try to draw and design. Or is it that I design to draw? No, wait, I draw a design… Yeah I think I do those too, but I’m not entirely sure. I guess the lack of accolades and career tells me otherwise. I’m mean, I’ve received a piece of paper proving my competence, yet there doesn’t seem many who would vouch for shit. It saddens me because I’m thoroughly knowledgeable in that which is transgressive. I’m the arrow shot straight through shit. The course was straight, but the target, by happenstance, is a load of shit. Although I must admit, I see shit everywhere. Luckily I’ve invested in some new glasses, so I’m sure I’m perspective will change.

Social media scares me into expression

I’m still getting the hang of this social media heyday. I don’t like hay, but I guess I shouldn’t really judge that which I’ve not tried. Regardless, I’m still new to this whole thing. I’ve probably made mention of this in another post, but I like depth, so I’ll touch it again. I must admit, I have a problem with touching things more than once. I had a Facebook account, which I’ve disabled, for now, but signed up for because I was told it be great. Okay, I’ll believe you. I signed up and didn’t know what I was expected to do. Oh, you want me to publicly document my life? Well firstly, no, and secondly, what do I have to document that would be worth publicizing? I don’t do much other than think – not that my thoughts are deep, intelligent nor innovative – but I didn’t feel my being was needing publication. At least my private life was not up for disclosure. I enabled this Facebook to be open, but upon years of experience, I decided that I should close this book. I guess you could say I was “closed off” or “anti-social,” but truthfully, it made me feel better. Without the Joneses, I could focus on being myself and enjoy the anonymity. Years later, I was told to make a blog for a school project. Wow, that went against my social media guard. Well of course I had to make a blog if I wanted to graduate, so I did it. I received positive comments from classmates and teachers that I decided to continue this venture. I’m happy I did because this its a portrayal of my thought and not a display of what I’ve done. The lack of things done can be discerned from what I think. I’m a proponent of content over flash, which can be reinforced from my graphic artist modernist hero Emil Ruder. Form should follow function. Anyways, the point of this spiel is that I’ve opened myself to social media as a way to express myself, regardless of how cliched or redundant it is. It’s a compulsion I harbor that needs an outlet. And I like doing it in the virtual space because lines of a three holed punch paper doesn’t give feedback.

Creating a movement of naturalism

I’m not entirely sure what it means to be creative.
is it to make something?
surely that cannot be the only defining feature.
I poop, does that mean I’m creative?
or does what I create have to have some sort of stylistic flare?
maybe I produced an artful poo?
Could it be that my toilet mount was flawless.
I was able to disengage my belt and zipper in one felt swoop,
that left the toilet’s mouth agape in awe?
Ready to receive one of my most natural possessions.
If to make was the meaning to create,
then I’m guilty of daily creation.