Ballad of the Black-Hearted Artist

Posted: June 15, 2012 in me

Since my Kung Fu grip laid it’s fury upon a pencil, I have harnessed the infinite power of the word. Words of love. Words of confusion. Words of hatred directed at myself and others. Words of prayer begging for the cessation of respiration. Words of loss. Words of hope. Words of abandonment. Words of suffocation. Words of erotic fire existing in every inch that lays between heart, mind, soul and pussy. Words of fear being passive aggressive, yet blatant.

I have written plays, love notes, haikus, grocery lists, jokes, essays, rants and Dear John letters. As I write this, I write. IT will tell me what it is. IT will tell me it’s name. IT will give ITSELF life. I’m not confused. I’m just the vessel and the catalyst. IT runs me rules me and rapes my time and ravages my tongue.

As aware I am of the strength of my words, I’m also just as aware of how easily I can hide behind pen, pencil, paper and a glowing light at ungodly hours of the night. What began as an involuntary soul cough, evolved into my feeding into other’s appreciation and expectations, fear of failure, rejecting the “gift”,  to where I am now. Writing. All the same. All the emotion. All the thought or lack there of. MY.WAY.

This is my emancipation. I write what I write, regardless of you. I write what I write, regardless of me. This is what I do: I get the idea or compulsion. I manifest it in a readable way with the media of my choosing. You read it. You get to decide what, why, where, how, who…who…who do you think you are trying to ask me what I meant? YOU tell me what I meant. I know what I meant. If I meant for it to be transparent and slap you in the face, I’m more than adept at technical writing as well.

Reliance upon another’s interpretation of art is the clearest indication that you, yourself suffer from non-existent creativity. This is the way art works:……… Now that I’ve explained that no one owes you an explanation, least of all the artist, figure it out. Enjoy that journey. Embrace the open road of possibilities. Or, give up. I’m just doing what the universe dictates. I’m not indebted in any way to anyone but the muse. This isn’t to say that I’m not capable of focus or direction, this is to say I sometimes don’t give an actual fuck about anyone but me. News flash: Artists are insecure narcissist. And that, once again, isn’t my problem. It’s my super power.


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