Poets will always be tortured souls.
We enjoy the misery behind every syllable.
We relish in the words,
bathing in the putrid sorrow of pure humanistic melancholy.
It's disgusting.
It's revolting.
It's so painstakingly beautiful that one can't tear their eyes away.
Poet introductions always seem like interventions.
"Yes I am a poet."
"Yes I am a poor tortured soul."
"Yes I have been abused by the world and by god."
"Maybe I like it this way."
God has punished the creative;
he has given those with the eyes that truly see
a blackened dark labyrinth and a candle,
told us to take the walk of faith
and see the world on the other side.
We stumble, feeling the crumbling walls along our fingertips,
guided by the ghostly hope that there is in fact
something on the other side.
"Will I ever see it?"
"Will I ever feel the sunlight on my paper skin?"
"Will my inky blood finally cease?"
Poets are tortured, lamenting souls.
If we were to finally reach the end of the labyrinth we have found peace,
we fear for that day.
If we step into the sunlight, then we cease to suffer.
And if we stop suffering then our art is finished.
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