A tell-all poem about the dire reality of young artists and where endless inspiration truly comes from.
art by elly smallwood
the inescapable, constant dread of the future inspires us to create
or perhaps it is the endless well of
hateangerdistrustjealousysadness,
balancing the limited love supply.
i know this is true because i remember when you still created music
in your bedroom, 15 years old. a lock, attached to a silver chain, hung around your neck,
close to your pounding heart, which always beat so vividly with inspiration; it wanted
to rip itself from your body, show the world your raw perfection.
you switched silver for black marble beads, attempting to numb your emotions,
stop bleeding such vigorous compositions. not to the dismay of your mother
dancing to midi music in her bedroom — nor of your father
who loved the sound of the shattered glass door spilling onto the porch.
and as much as i love this youthful narrative,
i’m starting to find it hard to pick up the guitar and put my heart on the strings,
pluck out my pain like i’m scooping it out of my chest.
do you look in the mirror and see a dead man posing as an artist too?
Sam H. is a college student planning to study psychology. They're an avid fan of niche TV shows and often enjoy reading comics in their spare time.
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