Artists die

Artists die every day
Within this system they fade away
Working from eight to six
Praying for the weekend like a junkie for a fix...
And I go to bed early...
because lack of sleep makes me suicidal
Never have enough energy to summon up the care and rage to burn that fucking effigy of a dying time of slavery...
Time feels jammed,
The artist slumbers drunk and sad
Underneath smashed cardboard boxes, price tags and broken clock arrows,
hes dreaming of the gallows, and chores and pleasing others...
He's mad and scared and pessimistic yet somehow a little light of hope flickers...
Maybe the time is just not right..?
Need a little more time, a little more strenght and patience to get trough the grime...
This is not the end... not all is lost,
As some of these lines still rhyme...