to jean michel basquiat

a perfectly planned escape
finds its soulmate
in the execution.

an effortless downward spiral;
a beautiful disaster of self induced
self abuse. of self.
chaos as art as life.
cut short at its peak only
in the minds of those not living.

march twenty-first
two thousand seven:
the beginning of
august twelfth
nineteen-eightyeight

secretly pining for the
drugs money was spent
rehabilitating.

money as art as life.
not the money itself
but the existences we
all create with an ideal.

hours spent dying for
something just as easily
spent living for.

living as art as dying.
because living is dying
even in the philosophy
of the optimist.

time is a name we give
a concept which is working
towards an end we all are
forced to agree on.

we labeled the radiant child
an addict and a tragedy.
a perpetuation of money and
greed caught up in what others
wanted and self needed,
failing to see light following
a perfect illuminated path.

we hung him so carelessly, washing our hands
of consequence borne of lofty goals;
a martyr for pop culture.
a mere side effect for those
wearing green tinted glasses.
he died that we may all be made whole.
dont cry for his journey was your salvation