The poet, he was afraid
to call himself a poet,
wondering if his words qualified
and if practicing the craft was enough.
The internet, it spoke
of inner demons countless,
tortured artists abundant,
and pain like it was art’s only fuel.
The poetess, she told me
there was nothing to be glorified
for those characteristics
that should otherwise land one hospitalised.
I myself once asked,
“Are we in pain because we are artists,
or we are artists because we are in pain?”
And now I answer: Neither.
This is the thing you romanticise:
A lie. We did not invite pain
like it was a necessary ingredient
to make us who we are.
Before I was accursed,
I was writing.
As I am being set free,
I shall write, and after.
If to call oneself melancholic,
constantly wear black, and declare
oneself as troubled is one’s ideal state,
This One is doing Art awfully wrong.
I am creation. My God
did not create in perpetual sadness.
He did not create creatives
to strive for chronic depression.
My art is not
The Crying Man’s Sole Solace.
It is just that I myself cry;
But you need not.
The next time you romanticize
the demons and their poets,
may you be afflicted by a joy so deep
it moves you to bear your best creations.