Coffee Shop Crusades

I live in a city of “Artists”.
I feel disgusted by them.
I feel the hate they make me understand about myself.
I should hold some kindred spirit, but have little respect toward our separate journeys.
It may be I seem to creep along with my words, my books, stories, bleeding heart, and hours…no years of frustration in forming this sentence.
Some inward gift gives them ability.
They sing songs.
They paint on canvas.
They strum guitars.
I am jealous with their artistic simplicity and cannot find the magnanimous side of me.
I paint by numbers, but see an orchestra of acrylic paint on canvas in my head.
I fall in love with the artist.
I fall for the painter, the musician, the actress lying on a stage naked for me, and I devour every syllable.
She imitates the art of the past in her own magical way.
She plays the piano in black satin panties.
She hums tunes in her head as she eats a peach on a stoop leading to a studio apartment.


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