The Artist

There are no haunted places,

Just people haunted by pasts and presents.

There is nothing not worth expressing,

For no one has lived without falling.

Not everyone can dream so celestial,

For most people’s understanding is but elliptical.

Not everyone can make with pain such a tryst,

For not everyone can be called artist.

The artist writes till his fingers bleed out his soul,

The artist paints till his art paints out his ghosts.

The artist strums through the emptiness in his heart,

The artist lets his sculpture be his art.

The breadth of the artist’s inner wings,

Cannot be measured by man-made things.

For everyone is but too sane,

To make beauty from so much pain.

Neon City Lights

I arise in my roomy loft,

After a night of  chasing excesses sought.

Seeking the rare beauty in pain,

Living on feels like a bane.

City makes revelry all night,

As I sink to swim the depths of my mind.

Storms have come, storms have gone,

As I swim for evermore.

Once in a perturbed state,

I walked into the city late.

Bright city neon lights shine,

Trying to lighten my blackened eyes

Lights beseeching me hither,

Storms blowing me thither.

The light made fantastic claims,

To rid me of my ails.

I too join neon revelries shunning the garb of the recluse,

I had a neon bright muse.

In ephemeral chaos I found uneasy peace

Beauty never from pain , never at ease.

There are days I arise,

To yet again see those neon lights.

Like little airplanes tied to my toes,

Neon tries to fly me away from my woes.

There are days I arise in my roomy loft

Mind full of excesses sought,

Pain from beauty in rewind.

Sinking me into the depths of my mind.


* This poem is about how each time , I think I have found a place for myself on 'the otherside' , the attractive side , with all its flashy lights. Alas, those lights bring pleasure and never truth and beauty. And every time this happens , I learn to accept myself the way I am a bit more and enjoy my solitude a bit more */