Hot Knives

Great art comes from deep sadness
the slithering sickness of sorrow
pressed underneath paper-white skin
squirming, uncomfortable energy 
desperate to be expelled

Violent vomiting of mixed memories
touching brush to canvas,
fingers pressing into cool keys,
bleeding ink that stains blank sheets,
everything becomes an outlet 

A pressure valve to release the pain
inspiration to spark healing
something rising from the ashes of
an empty home
a shattered heart

A true artist hurts in happiness
finding a limp hand
a passion lost 
the prickling pressure of impatience
as time slowly drips 

Icky, slick sensation of 
inner walls made of oil
dark and cool without a flame
to ignite the stillness
sending sparks of art flying

Life's soft moments may be
more lovely than a set of prints
or the penetrating pages of a profound text
but there is still a certain pleasure
in the cutting motion of the all consuming 
chaos that came before