Are you prepared for Him?
I have incense burning,
My soul is yearning,
It’s just You and I
If you cannot suffer the pain,
You have no business falling in love with an artist.
Through song, writing, paint or any medium,
The pain inflicted is of two types:
If they love you,
It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally
If they hate you,
You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.
Are you longing to be a source of my pain?
Just so your ego can revel in the joy of knowing you were able to extract from me syllables to fashion some prose.
To meter some emotion.
To prattle some words.
I can change my medium like a snake sheds it’s skin.
Akin, to your liking.
So you can hear the words you long to hear,
Just audio on ear.
Be wary, as you’re lost in the marvel of the fashioned words,
That I harbour a hatred towards you.
Whilst you bathe in the romanticism of you,
I drown in the confusion of suicide contemplating this grotesque thing you made me do.
Forcing me to write.
I don’t know how to write letters of begging and wont save you as you struggle with your thoughts and haven’t the skill to put ink to paper.
No, you’ll probably inject ink to skin.
A faded tattoo of my name on your aged skin, your children will ask you about,
That you will cry incessantly every time about and teach your children the idea of contentment from.
You’ll teach them not to scatter bed sheets if you don’t intend to sleep.
You’ll teach them not to rattle the hive if you don’t want to be stung
You’ll teach them not to kick the loyal dog if you don’t want teeth gnawing at your soul for the rest of your life.
Is that what you really want?
I’m an extreme mist of the worst kind,
I’ll pose at one end of the spectrum,
In full sight,
Or a midnight blind.
I’ll fog your thoughts,
Stir the soil to be sewn,
Have you scurrying back and forth,
Rope ends of your mind.
So push me to that end,
Or to the other,
Through the thickness of it all,
Who knows what you’ll find.
Time to hijack the term back from the lazy throws and empty prattling of media musers.
Too long it has been deployed by the mass hysteria-mongering media, abused to stigmatise people.
Words are not theirs to use when they cannot appropriately contextualise them. They are ours.
The word extremist is not evil, not in the correct context or deployment.
Shakespeare is an extremist.
Beethoven is most definitely an extremist.
Einstein an extremist.
Ghandi an extremist.
Any person of worth or merit devotes themselves to an extreme beyond the norm to spring forth greatness and beauty the conformity of society cannot produce collectively in their mediocrity.
For me, the ability to write only comes in the stillness of the night.
Thoughts, ideas, musings and pondering pass through me during the day.
A word from him, a look from her, a thought from that person expressed through mere presence, my guard is up and I’m on alert and I take notes but I only find the reaping at night when silence prevails, my belly is empty, life forms are otherwise dead and the stillness allows it all to manifest.
Like a bashful girl summoned from behind a veil, some things deserve their own stage.
You must find that place and realise the worlds most noble sages, scholars, writers, artists, musicians and poets all revelled in solitude.
Some may need alcohol to remove these filters and inhibitions, but it will always be a mask, a psychotropic drug that keeps the demons at bay long enough for you to function. But the best of your work will only come when the body is pure, detoxified of material and of ego and ripe with a fertile soil.