Art Assassins

The Art Assassins.

You can't cut me down with a blunt axe. Especially if you don't even know how to wield him. You make it easy. For me to write. It's funny how narrow. Minds and streets and rivers as they run dry.

Being artistic by no means makes a person superior but I find the plague of people attempting to bring creative souls down is both comical and ignorant. Writing is a cathartic experience, an experiment of sorts. It feels like an acknowledgement of the good things in life and an exorcism of the bad ones. Logging it all down. Purpose.

I was made to counter your lack of illusion. I was born to do it. To colour in your drab black and white image. If you used your heart with your words they would often be different. Other shapes they would take. That would involve a modicum of thought. That would mean caring. It's easier not to. For some. For some.

I could paint a beautiful picture or sing a gorgeous song. You could slash the picture apart, you could rip the voice from my throat, but you could never change nor deny what had existed, that it was real. That it provoked your reaction. Impact. Your words affect me too. I cannot lose this battle. I can write you into a corner, shine a spotlight on you, underline your errors, show the world your thoughtless pose. Tear you apart far worse. With thought. With imagination. With intelligence and soul. The soldiers are on my side. The words.

The world needs love and positive energy. If you wasted a second trying to communicate a negative point you are throwing away your days. Waste. Garbage. Futile.

An assassin who can't even make a kill. Now that's no good, is it?