The Homesick Traveling Salesman.

Walking around these suburban neighborhoods.
I've got my white button down on and a striped tie.
My shoes are completely covered in blood. How exciting?
I've got my name tag that says who I am, but somehow
When I look at it I feel unfamiliar. It's like looking
Into a mirror one day and realizing that years have passed,
And you're just a shell, shadow of your former self.
Still, I've got my expensive briefcase with the metal fasteners.

What am I selling to these people? What do I have left?
My eyes, my ears and my nose for those who wish to be beautiful.
My liver, my lungs, my guts for those who've never had them.
My heart, my brain, my throat will go to the highest bidder.

And as I tear myself limb from limb for these people,
Feeling so much pain just to forget my failures I collapse
On the front porch of an elderly woman's house. Bloodloss.
Who am I anymore? And what the hell is my purpose? Anyone?

Please?

Do I have a soul? And if I do am I going to hell to burn
And to rot amongst all of these sorry lunatics who gave it all,
Everything for their torment. For their ideas whey they weren't
Conforming to the widely accepted views of society? Am I dead?

Just because I'd never lust for the pornos and the sluts.
Just because I'd rather die than let my memory fade.
Just because I have so much hope in a world that has none.
Just because I love with everything that I possibly could.

I wake up on the porch of this woman's house,
And the maggots have already started gnawing at my flesh.
I ask her to take a gun and just ease my pain,
But no. I change my mind, pick myself up with my briefcase

And I walk.
Down the street.
To the next house.
And for what?

Because I am an artist, and that is what I do.