It's Funny

I used to know how to write
When I saw it all in black
Being dark creates a brilliant canvas
For a tortured kind of creativity
And assists the deepest part of a soul
To emerge from the very bottom
Of its muted and strangled mud pit
And trudge it out
Like a soldier at war
Curling and weaving a lyrical web
Of battered and articulate art
Direct from a dirty street corner
Or the lowest depths of a firey hell
Where flames fall like rain-drops
Turning tears into pain
While it burns the skin
Off my feet that walk the land
But burning heals
And smoke fades from gray
Life opens its gates
To a luminous sane
With doors wide open
To a porthole of indulgent trust
Clarity and unlimited peace
The pure ability to lust
But the beautiful clear
That in this moment is found
Is mirrored by shock
And a devastating horror compound
As the imaginative creation
Black Bloom begins to die
Slowly sucking from your pores
Rippling effects and altering lives
Then suddenly...
I sit very still in my chair
And I notice
That a life without pain
Is a life without torture
And without this torture
What's left will remain
But a canvas still white
Art of battle wounds maintained
By the abuse and misconduct
Of a creativity devide
Paint is still packaged
In its plastic bow-ties
So your heart has been healed
But the art in you dies


The light is insightful...
But kills an artist all the same.