Sta.sh
It was like I was sitting in
a white chair, plastic
with cigarette smoke
choking to remember, I'm
alive?
All I could hear was this
low machinery like rumbling,
piston pumping, an atrial anarchy
blood from the telephone line,
no one receiving, it's deceiving, quit believing
I'm one of the few between
life and death, a breath again
to remember I'm
human?
It was very ominous and
my thoughts would be
sporadic as if they were coming
from outside of me, like I wasn't real,
my thoughts would be
unopened packages, futility pills
designed for your ill conceived
manners, hung banners in lieu of
the dead look in my eyes and
I cry to remember I'm
feeling?
I kept seeing pipes,
a maze of them with the laughs of
children in masks, but in
slow motion and distorted and
nobody asks my name so
I look in the mirror to try and
recognize the visage, a mirage
in the deserted mind,
tomes of my innocence
passed with the seasons, a treason
on personal liberty and
I'd be a liar to say it's
better this way?
The clock keeps going backwards and
all I see are flies,
thousands of flies and eyes and
tries on my patience, thin as an
old man reflecting,
inspecting his trials, and miles
of unkempt laundry baskets
bleach and banter and garbage, my face is
blurry like a snowy television set
white noise exhaling, impaling
daily routine and I just want
serenity, dreams of a past life
like the one in the photograph,
souls stolen on paper, the drapes are
unopened to shelter the madness, but I'm
glad this is just my
imagination?
So I dance like a pagan, and take in
the nonchalant screaming,
the gleaming of headlights, the dead nights
repeating in motion, devotion to
sadistic carnival games, yet I
blame society or some chemical warfare
performing some ritual to a god who tortures my ego,
but who's there to save me?
just remember you're crazy,
remember the days or be lost
in the daze of your fantasy ways,
remember you're
special?
So I just stare at the wall and
my reflection is the 6 walls
of the room I'm in, but
I feel out of my head so
I smoke another cigarette and
I write broken explanations in journals and
I draw my tribal art like
waste spewing from a faucet in my brain and
I know I'm insane, and the rain feels
static and alarming, not charming
not like this disease...
So there I am pumping my chest to keep
my heart from stopping and
I laugh because it's normal,
I laugh because I'm so far from it.
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low machinery like rumbling
(comma after rumbling?)
from outside of me, like I wasn't real
(comma after real?)
in the deserted mind
(comma after mind?)
bleach and banter and garbage and my face is
(change to: "bleach and banter and garbage, my face is" ?)
serenity, dreams of a past
life like the one in the photograph
(move "life" up to end of previous line?)
sadistic carnival games yet I
(comma after games?)
performing some ritual to a god who tortures my ego but
who's there to save me
(drop "my ego but" to next line and remove "who's" ?)
So I just stare at the wall and
my reflection is the 6 walls of the room I'm in but
(move "of the room I'm in but" to a new line?)
I laugh because it's normal
I laugh because I'm so far from it.
(re-set these lines to: I laugh because it's normal, I laugh/because I'm so far from it. ?)
First of all Tyler, I'll tell you what, this is a really good poem. And it's also worth reminding you, in case you need a reminder, the best poets and writers have suffered with some version of mental illness. Whether it's chemical imbalance or drugs or alcohol, the brain in an agitated state is capable of so much amazing brilliance!
As for this poem? Well, I might add a comma here or there to help the reader know when to pause. You obviously want the reader to read it fast and really go along for the ride, but I think there are a couple of places you should consider putting a comma. You might also remove a word or two or three in some lines. Don't think of it as slashing up a piece of art, think of it as trimming a bonsai tree. What you have here is thoroughly imaginative, it just needs the slightest tightening (with commas and a couple of dropped words) to make it even better.
Anyway, that's my take, but do with it (or don't) what you will.
As for your first paragraph, I do indeed realize the genius and beauty within madness. If I did not, or could not, I don't believe I would be still making art. I never chose to become an artist anyways. I just woke up one morning and realized I spent more time drawing and making art than I did at my full time, 6 day a week job. To some being an artist and the creative process is a mere hobby, or profession gained from years of exposure to curriculum and organized hogwash. Being an artist for me is simply being human. I realize I am imperfect and sometimes that really gets under my skin.
I used to have severe chemical dependence issues to put it lightly, and almost wanted to make myself go insane for some bombastic attempt at making "better" art. What I ended up finding though was much more sinister. I spent close to 2 years living in waking nightmares, never knowing if the madness was real or exaggerated. There are periods of several days to months where I don't remember much at all, save for the journals I kept or stories from friends. I suffered day to day, almost enjoying it as some points. I developed real mental illness amidst all of the chaos which only increased the confusion.
I remember having a 2 month stint in a combination of drug induced schizophrenia and pure mania ending with a trip to a rehab facility. I remember kneeling naked over the carpet at 5 in the morning covered in paint and babbling to myself about god knows what. Like I said earlier, I suffered a lot. Most people, even my closer friends don't even realize that. No one ever will. That is my burden to carry for the rest of my life.
The majority of the art here on my DA page was created under the influence of that madness which a lot of people also don't realize. I know I'm not the greatest at what I do. I'm self taught, know barely any advanced technique and tend to make art in an all around uncouth manner, but the one thing I believe that makes my art special is its honesty. Not once did I sit down intending to draw what I thought madness or addiction looked like. I simply drew what I saw in my head. That makes my art utterly human and in a way blameless.
That's why when I introduce myself nowadays I say I'm an artist. Not because I have a degree in it (which I don't), or for some hipster reasoning meant to put myself on a pedestal or even just to sound cultured. I call myself that because it's my identity. My art is so intwined with my psyche that cutting a piece of my art in half might as well be called a medical operation.
All that aside, now that I've begun to solidify my place in this crazy world, I hope to expand my skills so that I can help those in need of what I needed. I was for the most part alone during all my trials. Before that I was codependent and hung on the shoulders of everyone not truly knowing who I was as an individual. I learned to rely on myself and how to survive. I became cold, and jaded and yes even cynical at times, but all in all I'm a better man for it now.
I want my art to inspire and encourage others like me, few may they be. If I can change just one person's ideas or influence them in a positive way, I can die happy. I don't care about money or fame. I just want to draw because it's the only damn thing that makes sense anymore.