How Does A Factory Stop

I was once a better artist before I was an artist
twenty no thirty years ago I really got it
twenty no thirty years ago I made things that meant something
Now I'm all just waiting for FedEx and printing work invoices

Not to say I don't make things now but
things now are just bullshitty ways to pass the time
Marking time until death by entertaining our brains
Filling space with artistic insulation from the wounds of fame

Skin stretched so thin like blank canvases of blind artists
Layers thickening like Kevlar covered down puffer jackets
Audiences specific and always cumulative with input or indifference
Working to make dead and estranged relatives proud

Fortunately I have subjective objectivity and I at once
don't give a shit what people think yet (here it is)
I'm begging constantly for approval and attention (please)
That smell is desperation and hubris and superiority and fraud

You think you have me figured out don't you
If you do please stick me a Post-It or write me a book (about me)
because all I can do is fill cracks with ideas and imagery
Only what I think I am in your eyes is me is you

I was once a better artist before I was an artist
I find myself tired sometimes thinking end game strategies
How does a factory actually stop producing cars or crackers
or finding places for things conceived in dreams and spaces