Creatives, Do we torture ourselves?
Or does the world pour sssss-sizzling coals over open seepin' sores, dragging fiery flickers across our chests, nature's tribal marks drafting territories? The dread-ry, life within art. Brad, Holden, Sabrina, Wade, Rory, cursed. Amaka, Chima, Nedu, Shade, Lema, darkness enclosed within smiles and rolling eyes.
"Too happy," scrawled, punctuated, across novelty pieces. Petals opened, not shattered enough. Broken, synonymous to experienced. Four years later, four accidents -- two totals, one fender bender, one pedestrian hit -- later, breaking, falling mind walls and living puberty at 23. I revel in the brokenness of my chosen art, unraveling onion scale leaf. Are new pieces good? Don't ask me. First John yes-es. I also must progress, he says. Shall I torture myself further? Isn't my alcoholism, cynical outlook and restless spirit enough?
Last night, I stayed three hours awoke past my close-eyed time. The pain shooting from my chest like shafters of death unbegged, I grasped for air. The right spot, not heart attack. Unbidden, my mind clawed through. No, it screeched. Hate life. Hate stagnant spot, passport. Hate the endless hidden cry beneath a clean face and a smile. To get up at 6, snoozed 7, I mind-wrote a letter, begging freedom. Oh my parents, my parents. I watched dying amber faint as I palm oil and yam etutu-ed sleep. Last night, every night.
Do we torture ourselves or does the world torture us? Did I pull a 360 to write, to hide myself and write? Do I need the heavyness of the card carrying 'tortured' to string successful words, to stay Peter Pan-ed in the characters' world?
Before the black steals my eyesight, I whisper, "I just want to write." But, I want the people who need it to read it too. Perhaps, that's the problem. Truth is,
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the revelation isn't known to me.
Adieu Robin William. Your effect safe, folded and nested within rib cages.
"Too happy," scrawled, punctuated, across novelty pieces. Petals opened, not shattered enough. Broken, synonymous to experienced. Four years later, four accidents -- two totals, one fender bender, one pedestrian hit -- later, breaking, falling mind walls and living puberty at 23. I revel in the brokenness of my chosen art, unraveling onion scale leaf. Are new pieces good? Don't ask me. First John yes-es. I also must progress, he says. Shall I torture myself further? Isn't my alcoholism, cynical outlook and restless spirit enough?
Last night, I stayed three hours awoke past my close-eyed time. The pain shooting from my chest like shafters of death unbegged, I grasped for air. The right spot, not heart attack. Unbidden, my mind clawed through. No, it screeched. Hate life. Hate stagnant spot, passport. Hate the endless hidden cry beneath a clean face and a smile. To get up at 6, snoozed 7, I mind-wrote a letter, begging freedom. Oh my parents, my parents. I watched dying amber faint as I palm oil and yam etutu-ed sleep. Last night, every night.
Do we torture ourselves or does the world torture us? Did I pull a 360 to write, to hide myself and write? Do I need the heavyness of the card carrying 'tortured' to string successful words, to stay Peter Pan-ed in the characters' world?
Before the black steals my eyesight, I whisper, "I just want to write." But, I want the people who need it to read it too. Perhaps, that's the problem. Truth is,
|
|
|
|
the revelation isn't known to me.
Adieu Robin William. Your effect safe, folded and nested within rib cages.
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