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
Protect the Innocent 