Set, cross-legged in a state of meditation
so deeply descended, seeming asleep
while alert at the station,
this liberation, is fear incarnate
the more the chains fall from ankles and wrists
and waters of the world flow with sweet, free bliss
the farther away the pain with each shackle slips
it is a question whose burden one never forgets:
am I an artist? If I cannot create while in a state
of stabilizing happiness
then, am I a poet or a madman
that writes all with fervor, no flavor
convinced every work is my last word, as sure of myself as I can
beaten, enraged and broiling, a canvas that is red I turn into
a stark, dark, unfair and biased portrayal, my visage I make true
that passion destroys me and fuels this melodrama
all my greatest failures I love so, oh, I do
all the greatest works I've ever written came from dust; desolation I gave rise to.