in the presence of an angel we would cower,
but we have felt injustice and lack of
power looking at you.
Broken and shards of you corrupt the streets,
bruises and stitches cannot contain the
energy of your spark.
You may be a monster but giants never
understand,that the world is full of misery,
and you’re just playing in the sand.
you may be “ruthless”, but those only make
up the letters of “truth”

c.a.

I think we, as artists in every form of the word, take in the world on more than a black and white level as some may. In a way that we are integrated and living treacherously on a tightrope, artists feel like they need to take on the world in senses beyond their control, and their pain is exerted into their work. There is a purpose in our suffering, but our capacity to handle our lives outwardly is slim. To take the time to understand an artist would be talking to a preacher to why he loves God. There is so much backstory to take us to our points, and to know that artists cannot find closure in the things they can see with our eyes wide open, but rather, with our eyes closed and brought forth into taking the world, maybe not our own, on our shoulders, and breaking free in an exertion of prismatic findings in pain.
c.a.