The Realization of March 7, 2021

The Realization of March 7, 2021

The world doesn't need another poem

or another human, for that matter.

The world doesn't care,

but apparently humans do.

So as a human

I must do my duty

and write another poem.

So here it goes...

I realized that great artists use drugs.

Most of them at least.

But all of them are abnormal in one way or another.

Bukowski had alcohol.

So did Hemingway.

Kerouac had speed.

Van Gogh had depression (so they say).

The Beatles did LSD

and so did Steve Jobs.

Countless people have done drugs,

including medications.

Are any of us real humans?

I guess no one is naturally human.

I was given vaccines when I was born.

I have a scar on my upper left arm to prove it.

I can make a case I'm not human

but who cares

maybe other humans?


What an idiotic creature.

Thinks he/she is the center of the world

but then contributes to the world

then complains about the world

then wants equality for other humans in the world

all at the same time thinking about his/her own welfare

and making sure no other humans can take away what is rightly his or hers.


Can't make up their mind about anything.

Like the words I'm typing.

It took me awhile to find the right thoughts and words to put down.

I suppose this is what it's like to be human.

What makes us different than the rest of the animals.

To be indecisive

To take drugs/medications

To do contradictory things

As a human, I conclude:

Great artists do drugs to be creative.

Other people take medications to be sane so they can enjoy the art that's created by the insane artists.

No one wins.