Every Artist Has A Vice

“You’re an alcoholic, Honey.”
That’s what he’d said to me.
“And I could love you if I didn’t hate you,”
he went on, and I’d hoped he was joking.
But, it turns out
none of what he’d said was funny.
Everyone in his life had told him
to “Turn the other way.”
And I just didn’t have the
there was no fight left in me,
to bother, to beg him to stay.
Mother told me if I made it up
I’d have to lie down
in this bed, where
memories we made yesterday
and my dreams of the future
danced together awkwardly
to the beats
he played inside my head.
And I wondered,
who was this woman?
Just who’d she think she was
meant to be?
They spoke her name,
said good and faithful.
And when they called her friend,
I was certain
they were saying it to me.
The stories that she wove
into her artist’s tapestry
were variations of the same,
timeless truths:
Love brings pain.
we lose all we gain.
From death comes birth.
Whatever you create
holds value only in
whatever its destruction
is worth.
The stars speak of knowledge, brotherhood, unity.
But people worshiped carnage;
synthetic beauty,
photocopied emotions,
based on imprinted memory.
And I wanted to be real.
I tried so hard
to comprehend the very essence
of energy between two life forces,
the points where they converge,
where their souls might truly blend.
What I sought was invisible.
For no naked eye could ever see.
An imperfect human being
can barely grasp
at fleeting moments
such as these
split seconds
on the pathway to divinity.
The most I can do now is admit my own weakness,
my poor attempts at mastery.
And if I pick up a glass,
knowing I’ve already lost,
that he will always judge me,
then I suppose
I’ll just have to learn
to let that be.


© 2010


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