By Claudia Ricci
Art
starts
and stops
for reasons
too mysterious
to ignore.
One day, you sit down at your computer and out pours
A perfect little poem. Your heart soars and you send the litte gem
-- your adorable child --
Out into the world and wait for the applause.
Ah, you say, I am quite the poet. I am
An ARTIST, sigh, what a glorious thing it is to
To imagine yourself sitting in a sunny café in Paris
The tower soaring above your
Your head is adorned in a beret
You are penning poems all day long
When suddenly with no warning
along comes a nasty spell
that lasts more than one day
one week
one month
OMG one year?
Before you know it,
you are dead inside
because you cannot write a thing.
along comes a nasty spell
that lasts more than one day
one week
one month
OMG one year?
Before you know it,
you are dead inside
because you cannot write a thing.
The well is absolutely dry
The soul shrinks
The heart is wrung out
Like a dishtowel after
The dryer spins is spinning
so loud you feel like you are inside!
"NOT FAIR" you shout you scream
You try everything you know
But the mind will not budge
You think you are going
You ARE going crazy and
NOBODY IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD CAN FIX IT.
So what do you do besides wait and drink and smoke 10,000
No, silly, you don’t smoke.
You sit there feeling yourself choking
What is the word for living and dying all at once?
You beg you plead please God
Please just one more just one moreand then one morning
even before
you wake
out of nowhere comes a voice
“You will write again today!”
Did somebody actually say that?
If I didn't then WHO?
Did I say that
BEING THE ARTIST is no
Smooth road?
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