My emotions leave me worn and tattered:
My heart more than broken, shattered.
And who has caused me all my pain?
I've no one but myself to blame.

No monster deprived me of my life,
No bully gave me grief and strife,
Nor devil caused my brain to rot,
But my, for sorrow, soul has sought.

Most are pleased within their joy;
Some with items, money, toys.
Some need love and family
To drive away the misery.

But I seek not for love confessions:
No money or worldly possessions.

I am joyous in my depression.

When you look at me
Just what do you see?
Do you see someone beautiful
Loving and free?

Do you see an intelligence
Witty and smart?
Or someone creative
And gifted at art?

Or perhaps, perhaps,
Perhaps I'm a failure.
Maybe I'm stupid,
And ugly, and bland.
Maybe you hate me.
Maybe everyone should.

Or maybe,
If you hate me,
I'm misunderstood.

Even if you love me
If we get along
You still might not,
Likely don't know me at all.

I know that I'm ugly
But the most I can say
Is that I don't care
About appearance anyway

Even though that
Is a bold-faced lie
You try proving
Otherwise

Do truly only the good die young?

Or

Do we simply care not
       Nor notice
When the wicked
       And the hated
Pass away?

No matter their age,
       Who or what they left behind,
Or what they could have done,
       Who they could have been,
Who will miss the wicked youth
        Thinking them unchangeable
When they are gone?

To be inspired to create-
And per chance to inspire others-
Is either a grueling task
Where one must whip their own mind into motion
Like a stubborn mule
Or else it strikes as lightning
That can only be cast by the gods
And when it strikes it is exhilarating,
All-consuming and the epitome of creation;
Inspiration that is spontaneous,
An unfaithful geyser of sudden epiphany,
Often produces the shortest yet strongest results,
The being blessed by it cast into a conscious sleep
Where all thought and movement are otherworldly;
These works of divine intervention are
The cornerstones of human art so rare and lucky to have
As there is moderation in art as there is moderation in
All things, including moderation and inspiration:
On the other plate of the scales of Lady Justice
Is inspiration that has been dredged up from the ground;
It is liquid gold, crude; it does not shine
And it requires energy to obtain the very power we seek,
The subject work is clawed at until it is laid bare
Then robed and disrobed over and over again
Until the creator finds a fitting garment
And in this process the creator discovers a loving hate
Over the object which they have put such effort into,
That is still not nearly as fine as the works of sudden art,
Yet it is the Apple of their Eye nonetheless….
Once obtained, forced inspiration can be
More inspiring than that of the spontaneous inspirations;
A creator who has endeavored to struggle with inspiration
Is someone who can lead by example-
Where not everyone will be favored by the gods
And be given sudden wisdom and thought-
Anyone can ponder for hours on end
Until the train strikes them and the coal engines'
Fire is stoked to peak capacity by tedious effort;
Those who drive hard have opened minds and
Are more motivated than those who already have
A single goal to achieve: After divine inspiration
Has been carried out, what more is there for the
Creator to do if the gods do not
Favor them again?
In such ways do inspiration flow,
Quick and strong as lightning, here then gone,
Or steady as a slow stream, a lasting current
Which results in a slowly built and driven creation:
For those who are blessed with instant inspiration
Congratulations! Enjoy it while it lasts!
And for those who work beyond countless hours-
Congratulations to you, as well, for your dedication
And willpower so inspirational.