Categories
Life

Insomnia

I lay in bed last night, at 4am, thinking of the tortured artist, thing.

We feel so deeply, us creative folk, and therefore, we capture the world in its fullest expression.

Which is beautiful. Really, ice-shatteringly beautiful.

But we are often not understood, at best. And at worst…we are grossly misunderstood, usually by the logically minded folk of the world, who do not (perhaps cannot) see the world the way we do.

Sometimes we are judged as weak, overly sensitive; irresponsible, messy. A lonely human, this does make, at times.

A lonely human this does make, at times.

I remember sitting at my piano as a nineteen year old, feeling the world in all its depth; the beauty of the autumn leaves outside the window, a huge comfort as I sat and wondered about my place in the world.

These creative eyes.

They make everything a little more beautiful. A little more horrible. A little more alive.

I’m grateful, for them, I am.

I’d imagine all the tortured artists out there were grateful, even the ones who battled to a sometimes tragic end.

Misunderstood, they were, and a little bit lonely, maybe.

A little bit scared of the depths that dragged them beneath the surface, on occasion, maybe.

Especially at 4am, and the very next day.

Photo by Anthony Shkraba on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Some Days

Some days,

even the days that are kind,

(and quite lovely)

feel a deeper shade

of aching life.

And you’ll never know why,

(at least, I never do)

but you might hope

(like me)

that one day the ache will settle

and you will no longer wish

(quite desperately)

for something more.

Or less

(I can never quite tell.)

What did the poets do,

you might ask yourself

(like I do)

and you’ll try desperately to forget

the ones who didn’t make it

all the way.

I will make it all the way,

(this I know)

because I choose life

even when the skies are grey.

For alchemy was the golden lake

of dreamers past.

And dreamers present fill the aching

(world)

with streams of sunshine

and honey milk days.

Shall I fill my own cup

and drink the nectar, sweet?

Shall I ask the golden lake

(of life)

to flow this way

and bring me home?

Categories
Life

Rainbow

Is this a rainbow I see

reaching through the collective heart

of the dreamers?

Wide eyes open, lovely dreamers.

You were made to shine

the most beautiful lights on the world.