Inoperable, this tumor,
this seed of doubt that plagues a creative mind;
why is it, that pain, so eloquently rendered in life,
is both the plague and drive of expression,
and the finer the excruciation
the more poignant the expression?
And depression, the darkness of oppression,
so common in creative minds,
adds to this mire of struggle,
this squeezing the life from intellect
to drip so elegantly upon a page,
seeking the solace of other minds.
Writhing, desperate pain,
tumours so malignant that light does not prevail,
yet it is rendered in sight, in beauteous states
from minds so tainted by affront,
taunted by love, revelation and higher thought,
to then surrender to one thing alone, creation.
This plight is beyond repentance,
beyond change or capacity,
and so commitment becomes the answer to balance,
commitment to the art, the words and life
of a poet, striken by all manner of epiphanies,
yet the sacrifice of all words, for blood.
Tis a platitude of sorts,
yet truth runs through its veins,
for like the artists of old, Vincent’s ear
and the penniless lives of so many fine souls,
pain and love walk hand in hand,
and the poet, understands.
Tony DeLorger © 2016