The Destruction of Monet’s Garden

why does art no longer feel like art
society tugging and pulling 
at the creative corners of my mind

I can no longer create just to create
just for myself
I can’t afford that luxury. 

my mind won’t let me,
for arts worth is determined by how it is received, isn’t it?
do you like the flowers of effort I offer you?
or should I grow a new patch, just for you, oh unknown soul of whom I may never know

when will I be able to untie my hands and grow my own garden?
tended and pruned to my own chaotic perfection
filled with thoughtfully planted flowers for friends and family and this life that I’m learning to love

I long for the days of my parents
the film photographs taken in their youth 
that shutter button only pressed for memory
unbeknownst how much their presence would mean to their child

I long for the days of sitting in art museums
truly appreciating the brushstrokes of artists minds
days I’ve never had

tell me, where did the romance go?
appreciation for the details?
love of the small things

why must true art be so hard to find
why must I settle for the roadside dandelions
hand-picked by algorithms and programs
and served to me through a gold plated black mirror

these words of poetry are no longer written in journals or perhaps the corner of a watercolor painting
instead noted down on the very knife used to attack my garden

and we wonder why is there such a longing for true connection
when we’re the ones who’ve smothered the very art of noticing