art never dies..
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Death of the artist
by Martin Friel



The artist doesn’t die grandly

Not like Hemingway, Vincent or Durer

It’s not dramatic


Or even heroic


The death of the artist is sad, slow and unobserved

Hastened by the job

The mortgage

The kids

By life


The artist struggles to remain true

True to themselves

Against reality

Against cost

Against the fear of creation


These are the real artists

Lost in suburbia

The ones who never made it

Who couldn’t cry loud enough

Too cowardly to act

Too lost in life to reveal their soul


Their purpose and meaning lost

The growing appeal of security

A security that meant nothing in a youth

That laughs at the conservatism

The need for a home

For the holidays


A youth that rages against the loss of energy

That fire

That drive with no purpose

The laughter

The tears

The desperation


The freedom

That has been discarded for stability, security and quiet nights in


That is where the artist dies

Not suddenly and with panache

But slowly, quietly and sadly


And that is the real death of the artist

The death of ambition, hope, faith

And belief


The grave of the artist lies in suburbia

Among the culdesacs of children

Toby Carvery’s

And the sadness of choosing safety over the energy of life



a line, (a blue one)


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