Raw As Fuck
The pages turning yellow As the days Pass by; Desire to write Burning inside, Wanting to destruct The world With my fucking arrival. The lusty craving Of being A famous artist Drives my actions, Thinking that I Am making Art And serving Art And aspiring That I am an Artist, Is fucking dangerous To art itself. Kurosawa inspires To write and never Ever stop. The thirst, The lust Is insurmountable. I want to Fill the diary With Ideas Emotions Illustrations Scripts Stories And make A living, A fucking name... My fucking name. The ideal Of creating For, In, With the present Is the Ultimate endeavour. That seems damn Elusive right now. Beckett, Scorcese, Anderson, Tendulkar, Joyce, ionesco, Kurosawa, Chekhov, Tarkovsky... All inside the Lusty craving Entirely to become The Big Artist Who creates art Of Originality, Quality, Provocation. The diary And The pen, Tools forever, Colleagues forever, Saviour forever.