Art is so beautifully misunderstood,
You can't sing,
Unless your voice,
Is selling out stadiums.
You can't paint,
If your artistry isn't displayed in a gallery,
Locked away for the rest of time to see.
You can't play piano,
If you don't compare to Mozart
Or Beethoven, or Bach.
And, why would you ever,
Bother to write a poem,
If Shakespeare has
Already, lived and died,
And Emily Dickenson,
Has said her goodbyes?
Art is useless,
Unless you are great,
Art is meaningless,
Unless it can be bought and sold —
Capitalized, until the world is content.
That's what society has taught us,
But they so beautifully misunderstand.


And so,
We forget that art,
Is so, beautifully human.
As long as we have been here,
We've been creating,
Singing, dancing, growing
Our prose will be here, always,
Writing our names into the skyline,
Keeping us here,
Even when we fade away.
Art is what makes us human,
It's not for money or fame,
It's what proves we're alive,
And that we haven't changed
In a millennium.
The famous artists,
Never meant to be known,
They only ever meant,
To live.
And I am the same,
In my mind and soul,
I don't want to be recognized,
I just want to write,
And be me.

I was lost in the darkness,
Feeling my around, blind,
Searching for a ray of light.
I hunted for freedom,
While the inky blackness
Tried to take hold,
And trap me in it's cold clutches.
The horror of fate
Sunk into me like poison,
As I surrendered to the pain of mind.
The night became apart of me,
The fluid that ran in my veins,
And controlled my pounding heart.
Midnight became my life force,
And I, it's humble abode.
Together we grew,
Feeding off of each other,
Nurturing ourselves in the others' existence.
As time passed,
I accepted this darkness as part of me,
And learned to love it with my whole heart,
It loved me back,
Reciprocation — the highest of compliments.
When I bled, it wept stars and the sky,
And it used up its vast eons of self
To make me whole.
When it shuddered, I screamed,
Feeling it's heartbreak,
Shatter me like a fragile light.
This darkness — this friend,
Was not the monster I thought it would be.
It was a kind stranger,
That offered me comfort,
And many ways to fix my pride.
This darkness took hold of me,
And taught me to love myself,
Because if I could find away,
To requite my own love,
Then the midnight inside would know,
It wasn't something to be feared.
Nightmares,
Are always just dreams reaching out,
From the blackness, in which they hide.