Oh!
Has this truth been truly seen!
But a glimpse into a floating sea
of strange reality,
but a knowing truer than true can be!
Who is Shakespeare?
That terrible, desperate soul,
falling,
falling,
landing evermore in the stories
of aching romance and tragedy?
I am Shakespeare.
I am the writer.
I am the lover.
And so are you, love.
So are you,
lover of passionate life
and love.
How deep is the sea that clutches
and drags me to the muddy floor, within?
How many days will I tumble
into the swell of inner life
unspoken, unwanted, unkind?
Shall I stand here, now,
battered and smiling, beside this beautiful life?
Still searching.
Still searching.
Always searching, but for the fleeting days
of clarity,
of home neat and tidy.
The creative knife;
sharp, yet desperately beautiful in shine.
Still searching.
Always, still searching.
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.
We are the poets.
The ones who listen to the bones of the earth.
The ones who feel the wind,
who know the wind,
who are the wind.
The bridge to the aching quiet.
We build it
and we travel its winding path,
searching for more than what we see,
the poets.
We are the poets.
We are the song of aching life.
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?
I see the world,
and I know it has been named
by those who came before me.
Who have I become
(or not become)
because of what they have shown me?
Voices claiming to guide are often sour
to my ears.
The world is alive,
delicate,
beautiful,
when my gypsy heart flies
free.
I see the world.
I name it for myself.
The sweet and quiet of life is where my soul belongs.
The essence of a strawberry.
The taste of the softest kiss beneath a swaying tree.
It is not all that I am, this sweet and quiet that calls me.
But it is my favourite place to be.
My favourite aspect of everything.
Fill me with your silver
and I will shatter
into a million stars
of us.
I have loved like the ocean windy and wild, where the birds of my heart fly free, and the whispers of my soul meet my lover softly. Gracefully. Passionately.
I have loved like a sweet summers day, like a warm cup of milk, like a thank you for no reason. Tender. Kind. Cherished until broken.
I have loved.
I still have love.
Within.
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.
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