Late at night, bored and melancholy,
I ask myself the age old question;
Are we tortured because we’re artists?
Or are we artists because we’re tortured?
An angel came into my dreams one night,
Placed her hands on my shoulders,
She told me she was giving me a gift,
I felt a spark of ignition in my soul,
And it spread out into my fingers,
Into my voice, threatening to overflow,
Overwhelmed and overstimulated
I futilely tried to give it back to her,
It’s not a gift I want, I told her,
And not one that I know how to wield,
She gave me a rueful smile, her eyes sad,
It’s not a gift anyone wants once it’s theirs,
But it could help someone one day, she told me.
I find myself holding a pen as if it were a needle,
Unstitching the seams that hold me together,
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