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Date Posted: 18:43:29 09/03/02 Tue
Author: formerly known as an artist
Subject: i have become unworthy of it

i wonder at violence tonight,
at where it would end
at how far i would go,
if ever i had the reason.
ever held it in my arms.

if ever i loved strongly enough.
didn't i do that once?
i faintly remember that will...




i let me die;
the me that was most raw
open and vital
beautifully willful
unafrid of talk,
unafraid of pain.
the one who believed in love
above all things
believed in love...

and now i find that i've let it go,
thrown away my own heart
for the sake of safety,
for a piece of sanity...




i lost my brush,
the canvas is empty;
i let my clay dry out
in this quest for the normal
the non painful,
and in the end it seems,
the artless.



i was a bloody heart
fierce and always fighting
but also free.
a head of orange scarlet glory
that defied the world for a moment
of honest and wild love.

she dried up like that clay,
the woman who was inside of me.
the bohemain,
the one who was not afraid of pain
becase she knew it was part of a real life,
as much a part of it as beauty is,
as truth is.



what kind of a love
even by another name,
is one that is not both beautiful and truthful,
even if that truth is harsh and painful?




they tell me to be happy,
but i cannot deny that weak voice...
cannont
will not
say no to her
rasping inside of me
deep within
that mangled lump of dry clay;
once a sculpture of the goddess herself...

she's pleading now
begging me to soothe her cracks with a slip
drawn out of a sea of poetry,
all the better if this salt I'm shedding
adds to her bath.




'what is the life of an artist
if it is unlived
un-savored
untried?'




an artist who will not stare into life,
as one stares into the sun,
-taking in it's breathtaking beauty
accepting some blinding as payment-
abuses their title...

i have become unworthy of it.

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