So I headed on off to the exhibition down the hill
Where I could chat with friends, enjoy the art
Out and out chill
As soon as I got there I met a man I like to call ‘The Stone Man’
You ask
Because I can
He was there in place of his friend the artist
And this is what he had to say
“My stuff has to be perfect…
I can’t help but throw it in the bin if I don’t like it”
Talk about a hard-driven case for neglect
I started to think
Is this fella right?
Am I thinking too much
Failing to filter the crap from the rest
Of things keeping a breast
I write too much poetry I think
That said
‘The Stone Man’ does the same
Whenever he passes one of his commissioned pieces on the road
He feels a fair chunk of the blame
“As soon as I’ve enough money I’ll buy the piece back…
Sort it out, fix the poor art, stop my head from having to deal with all of the flack”
A nice fella for sure
When it comes to artists I’ve met
He might just be the most pure
Knows I’m penning a poem about him
‘Cos I said as much
Then again
Maybe he thought I was talking the talk
Using my art for a crutch
I’m not
This is that poem
I wonder if he’ll like it
Or if all I get to hear is a bitch and a moan
It probably rhymes too much
A poem that didn’t really ask for it
But that’s the way I feel right now
I’m embracing the rhyme once more
Don’t really give a shit