Conversations With Insomnia

A Dutch Artist

A man walks down the streets of Amsterdam,

Taking the life out of his cigar,

Leaving a woman, he'll never see again,

Bloody noses from chasing cars,

He'll paint pictures of empty rooms and naked women,

Places and people he knows nothing about,

He has written stories on GODS and IDIOTS,

Things that make his inner self shout:

"Christ was born a crime and his parents were on the lam,

Science and psychology are liars and the know nothing about me!",

Bathing himself in other people's tears,

"Men, women and children are whiners,

The Asians, Americans, Blacks and other Europeans hate me,

I tell the truth, bluntly, I am the feeder of their fears",

Then, he'll tell you that the French were born slaves from poor misery,

The English are childish, dead cartoons,

The Germans were the innocent reborn from anarchy,

The Italians are the confused stuck between their potential and their past,

Trying to fix what isn't their mistakes,

"What buffoons!", he'll say,

He claims technology is moving too fast for no reason,

And that's why he refuses to keep up,

Though he'll never admit that somewhere out there he has a son,

However, he was kicked out of that household for always sneaking whiskey in his coffee cup,

The Renaissance never happened in his head,

With this wrongful path of progression, he rather be dead,

He explains,

"People we are going about it all wrong,

We must not put our differences on display,

And hunting for their origins,

We aren't writing them a love song,

We can't just take away the things we find merely interesting,

Humanity is bleeding,

We must think of the crime and never the punishment,

War is entrainment,

And we're not here for a long time,

Though we are here for a good time",

"Call me backwards,

Though I am only just existing,

Moving I don't care what you say,

I'll still dream of sex and your self loathing,

For I am an Artist",

Indeed, he was;