Poem By: Billy Alsbrooks
O’ the tyranny
The tyranny imposed by the tyrant of the senses
We’re mere plebes
Plebes and slaves to Art’s selfish demands
Must we beg?
Beg for emotional mercy?
How long shall we suffer from her arousal?
No one knows what they’re doing
Yet the imposters play their part
They’ve become the magicians
The masters of pretending
Pretending to capture what doesn’t exist
But their just pawns
Pawns to the art that possesses them
The art that uses them to do it’s bidding
Art is mind
But she fails to mind her own business
Her genius is getting us
Getting us to believe in the illusions
Believe in such a way that we give birth to them
We acknowledge the existence of our own lies
Therefore, we shall not make her out a liar
But can we really own what she’s offering?
Can we buy what her lips are selling?
Art is death
Death to the peace of our conformity
She’s the funeral
Funeral that ushers in new rule
The pallbearer that carries the casket of yesterday
What world shall we now inherit?
What will the sunrise of tomorrow bring?
Art is a crime
A crime of stealing from the imagination
Just a thief who seeks to rob
Rob the emotions of all who glance at her
She toys with our heart
Fondles our feelings
Penetrates our skull
Molests our spirit
Her fingertips the very genesis of perversion
She lusts to stir
Stir what hasn’t been touched
Hasn’t been felt
Hasn’t been known by know it all
Shall we lie in her bed tonight?
Shall we consummate the marriage with her?
Art seeks a partner
A dance partner
Someone brave enough to war
War against the boundaries and rules put upon her
For Art is but a tyrant
The tyrant that overthrows all tyrants
She is the mother of all Revolution
And makes no apologies for it
Art is a runner
She runs towards danger, taunting man’s fears with a flashlight
Who dare come to her throne room?
Who will share the reflection of her truth?
Art is an adulteress
Longing to wrap her legs around the sleeping
The sleeping minds of society
Those who have failed to awaken to her version of reality
She is medicine
The vaccine for emotional disease
Art is our path from mental illness to enlightenment
She waves the flag of liberation
But the thought slaves are slow to embrace her
Slow to believe
Believe that her motives are pure
Who can trust the untamed?
Who can get their hands around the new?
Art is stubborn
Secure in who and what she is
That makes her seductive
Yet she pays us no mind
We can’t tell whether we’re her family
Family or victim
Her muse or enemy
Yet we seek her heroin
The heroin of her conversation
Our eyes and ears infatuated with her tone
Her voice speaks to the soul
The soul beneath the soul
Art is a prison
A prison that holds us behind the bars of questioning
Questioning everything we know
Know and have accepted as real
She is a rapist
Raping us of our innocence
Shattering our paradigms
We can’t leave
We can’t escape
For to leave her would be to cut off our own limbs
To put out our own eyes
To remove the passion from love
To remove the life from living
Who can resist her mouth?
Who is immune to her virus?
Her taste is forever
Her perfume is permanent
There’s no going back to what we were before her
For Art has changed us
Challenged us to become what we’ve always been
Art is the lie
The lie that makes truth worth living
Tyrant of the senses…