they call it art.
they call it creation.
pixels puked by zeros and ones,
no trembling hand,
no cigarette ash falling on the canvas,
no whiskey-soaked regrets
dripping into the paint.
it spits out beauty like a whore’s smile,
perfect, cold, untouched,
not a single scar beneath the surface,
not a damn thing behind those eyes.
I stare at it,
trying to feel something,
anything.
but it’s like fucking a mannequin,
hollow, plastic,
no pulse to match mine.
the world calls it progress,
but I call it a coffin,
nailed shut with algorithms,
buried under silicon chips,
and all the dirt
of the lazy souls who call themselves creators.
I should scream,
I should fight,
I should bleed for the old gods of paint and ink.
but I don’t.
I light another cigarette,
watch the smoke curl,
and think,
hell, maybe they’re right.
maybe we deserve this.
maybe we got too tired to feel,
too tired to fight,
and so we let the machines
do the dreaming for us.
I pour another drink,
to the death of the imperfect,
to the death of struggle,
to the death of the human hand.
and tomorrow,
I’ll probably look at another one of those perfect things,
and hate it just a little less,
until I feel nothing at all.
Leave a Reply