It was good in the old days.
The poets were poets.
The writers were writers.
The artists were artists.

Now we have men and women
who under a comfortable roof
and closed doors try to look different
to this world.

They paint, write and create when they feel like.
They call it a Balance.
A Hobby.
A Stress relieving mechanism.
It makes them feel different.

Differently dead from one another.
Dead throughout their days
from the everlasting stupor
induced by the attention of others.
It ends in their dreams I feel.

They don’t have desperation
nailing their back.
The desperation to create something
that shall last a thousand years.

It comes in a few people only.

those who just care about creating.
those who dissolve their souls
on papers and paint it with their blood.

They do have the same passion as others.
But what makes them really different
from others is that they know
passion is like Gasoline.

You have to pour it over yourself
and start the fire
to really feel it.