Art’s not a way of saying and showing
that this is what and how we are.
It’s not truth but its splinters:
depravity of hope, yet hope nonetheless.

Art is suggestions: aspiration and avoidance.
It’s a purging: safer way to speak the hurting,
to deplete violence, confess weakness,
to turn your back and wait for the knives.

Art’s not us within us,
but a path to steer away from such.
You should know what art really is
with each lie that builds the day,
incense of apathy weighing down the night.