And I Call The Bastard, Art--A Poem

This is my first new poem of the new year--

My head feels like it wants to explode,

full to the brim, it is,

with ideas,

images,

night terrors

both real

and imagined;

fantasies

that are better kept

unrevealed,

let alone,

put down on paper;

I can actually feel time

slipping away,

I wish I had every minute

to myself

to write down

everything I want to say,

everything,

I need to say;

how many books

could I fill up then?

I am

a frustrated writer,

a musician

who never learned

an instrument,

but I know music

flows through

each word I write;

an artist,

with pages

upon pages

of blank canvas,

that need to be brought

to life,

with the stuff of life

that’s in my head,

which is

making it want to explode.

Mine is

a restless soul,

ever thirsty,

ever hungry,

eyes wandering,

always seeking,

always questioning,

always wanting

more,

and never satisfied.

Do not pity me,

for I need not,

your pity;

do not fear me,

for I am not to be feared;

I am.

like all of you,

human--

an amalgamation

of flaws,

ugly truths,

and

raw beauty,

too much to contain

Coming to this realization,

I believe,

is why God

has both blessed

and cursed me

to be a poet,

for it is the poet’s

duty

to convey ugly truths,

to reveal

raw beauty,

in ways

that those who choose

to see

can understand.

My head feels like it wants to explode,

because my duty,

my cross to bear,

my ordained mission

has not yet been fulfilled.

So,

I will close this poem,

because there is

still so much

that needs to be said,

that needs to be done--

art,

that bastard stepchild

born from the conflation

of my ego

and my pain,

and my penance

is not yet done.

© 2014 Joseph Powell