Friday Night was only written for the artist …
a seranade for the poet,
especially when it rains.
The companionship of not knowing what to do
combined with the pain of not falling in love
and all the while, on a mission
to express that which theatens to burst
out of the writer’s or artist’s veins.
The very purpose for their birth.
Enough silence to hear the truth,
enough motivation to take us
into the dawn of the morning
because Friday night
came without distractions
and was only made for the
writer and the artist baby.
Crazy to think it’s making love to the Universe
mind contending between left and right hemisphere
capitalism and the writer and the artist
can be anywhere but on this Friday night
God showed itself on the smeared
blood, sweat and tears on that old white canvas
Tip-toed across a poem.
Like a their in the night
and left that writer and