The Artist

The Artist short poem

Photo by marfis75

When the broken records play
The grooves of profound agony, they may
Watch the peace they built
The piece squelched to silt.
When forgotten verses cried out all the pain
And the tears saw the fort fell apart
To the debris remains.
Memories scoured by the fleshy rains,
The vultures mutilating the healing wound,
Piranha or men, both end up doing the same.
The coiled feelings bottled up in the stitched heart,
Feels to ooze out and drain away like overwhelming dart.
When all of it, a man can no longer take,
Too many scars are too deep to fade.
Is when he loses himself and an artist is made.
No one sees how he came this way through the dark.
All they encounter are the drugs he swallows.
See his creation with the vision of the heart,
Will they see the vacuum within him so hollow.

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3 Comments on "The Artist"

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Makaylah Downs

I absolutely love this. The line where you say, “..he loses himself and an artist is made,” resonates so loud, and can be applied to literally anything.

Nikita Mehendiratta

Very well described.


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