Where does it come from?
Who gives it to you? You know,
the stuff that tumbles from your fingertips
nearly too fast for you to keep up,
the colors and lines and words and notes
that feel like shooting stars soaring
through hailstorms, landing
deep in the swirling sea.
How do you take thoughts and
turn them into something you can
see or hear or touch?
And then, how do you take those
and turn them into
something you can feel?
Much is said about artists,
about no heat and dirty floors and
cheap apartments and ink stains
and dark colors and bitterness and smoke
and torture and torture and torture–
it’s all true, isn’t it?
Does it matter?
You see a painting, how does it
make you feel? You hear a song,
read a poem, and you can taste it,
you can feel it surging through you
like a revelation, like atonement.
Someone took that grimacing knot
from inside them and forced it
(shuddering, screaming, violent,
and so, so helpless) into the world,
and for what? Some would say money,
or fame, or empathy.
I think it’s so they can
remember how to breathe again.