sunday morning jitters

I'm an idiot, a con man like my father. My father and I differ mostly on the points of style and poise. I stay cornered at all times with my art, fending off the big bad finger prints prying to get their hands on my product. This product is mine, no roots or points of origins, a phantom of my wishes. I said, "God grant me a crutch, of which I can lean on and call my stoop. I will rest upon it for all my days. " God came down and laid this heavy birth in my hands and only said, "you hath what you desire." I milked it till blood flowed from it's tit, until the areola chaffed, dried, and cracked like the surface of an empty desert lake bed. These elitists attitudes creep out without making a sound, they find a way to my limbs and execute ignorance. I'm left behind to think on it all. Why do I use so many defense mechanisms through art? If I was going to turn out this way, I could have worked at Walmart and not seemed like a bum. Maybe that's it. Maybe I need to feel degraded and shitty, a nod to my father resting in his cell 5 hours away. I'm not sure but there are differences between our overall shittiness towards mankind. My father is more of the literal sense of a con man. A man without empathy or the foresight to ponder on "...what next after I steal this man's car stereo?" Fiends rejoice, there is another lowly man drooling at the thought of filling his pocket with loose money. I wonder late at night how many men in this world have the same urge, how many act on it, and how many are fathers? Are they sitting up late at night thinking the same on artists? We're the greatest con men. I write this as a declaritive statement because I don't think I've ever been so sure of something. I'm never sure of anything, this is why I always look like I know what I'm doing. People like me work this way. We have society tricked into thinking they need us. Grown, intelligent men and women using their insecurities as kindle for self empowerment. Somehow for being so fucked up and weak, people sing our praises. We count their applause like we're looking for change to pay the toll. One toll down, ten million to go. The grave will be our last stop and we're fine paying for our ride to the grave with your acceptence. We're sad and immobile creatures.