Kill the artists and call it Euthanasia
They've suffered long enough.
Paintings, pretty pictures, canvases,
And word documents
Won’t heal them.
So Kill the artists and call it Euthanasia
It's for the good of happiness--
That happiness covered with the wall's shade
Crouching in the corner,
It's suffering,
It's dying.
The paintings don't help long.
Look away for a moment, artists of the world,
Then you'll feel.
You're always feeling.
The sight isn't feeling.
The joy isn't feeling.
Look away
And see if you're still feeling
Or just hoping to stop.
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