Fuck Art

fuck art
or becoming an artist
or being an artist
or wondering wether anyone is smart enough to say anything about art
fuck the whole idea of deciding anything
selling anything
turning anything i create into something that someone may buy
judging anything
commodifing anything
maybe i'm just a scared little pantywaste of a girl
maybe i'm just afraid and wondering what to do with my life
maybe its just my life i'm deiciding here
maybe i am deciding not to put my life in anyone but my own penniless
hands
i am writing this minute and i don't know why
i don't know anything
i don't know if i would not live without this
are you wasting your time
i know what i am doing right now
and i don't know 
me
i don't know who will call me poet or writer or cliche or stupid
or follower or hanger-on or accountant or genius

if the air was something to be earned i would be wondering whether i was
good enough to 
breathe

i share what i create
it is a terror it is a necessity
no matter what, i would be creating something
but here i am so public
i cannot help myself
like breathing and apologizing for using up the air
that someone may need the air more or just plain old breathe better thereby
truly deserving 
air.
-Shut-up Shelley

Return to Published Poets