The artist, independent of medium seeks acceptance and accolades but generally has talent that entertains and that is therefore an even exchange, dependent on the artist’s ability and the public’s agreement to provide said accolades.
I am a writer. I can articulately explain the experience of spitting blood after a fist landing square to the mouth. I can describe to you the horror of childhood abuse and chronicle for you the tales of drug abuse; multiple drugs, not just one. I can absolutely describe so many horrors that I have experienced firsthand to the common man that he finds entertaining, without the necessity to experience said horrors. I feel that I am in possession of both experiences and the ability to convey them. I am from the gutter. I can relay to the general public the day to day lives of the homeless and desperate, and degenerate, of what general society considers “scum” and most scum are scum but there is genuine nobility on the streets than only a true street denizen has witnessed. I’ll split this booze with you if I can use some of that blanket; that way we can both keep warm. It's been a cold winter night, my entire early life. I’m a bard of the streets; a purveyor of the sordid for a curious public.
I can describe the bottomless pit of hopelessness that I felt when two close friends were brutally murdered (separate occasions) and when one of my favorite brothers in arms blew his head off in his parent’s apple orchard, 3 days after getting out of the Army. This is my forte. This is my medium. My medium is pain, mixed in with articulate description. I want something for this. I want recognition; am I wrong?
From my humble beginnings in abject poverty to the life of a soldier, to a methamphetamine addicted enforcer of various underworld codes and transactions. From crack addiction and homelessness (homeless twice; crack once, for two years), I have always maintained the ability to explain such experiences; to articulate. This is what I have to offer. This is what I am offering the world. I have had prostitutes suck my dick out of a confused sense of love (and a place to smoke crack) and I cared right back for them. I have been in more fights than I can conceivably recount (although I do my best for the readers). The cigarette burns from my childhood are almost invisible now, but they’ll always be there to me. This is what I have. This is what I have to offer. Accolades now being accepted from those so inclined.