Question for the Artistically Inclined

Why do artists always love the dark,

Why do they shoot themselves in the head

With words and guns alike?
Why do intellectuals cling to the heavier side,

Why is the light so carefully excised

From the pages and the hours and the days?
Call me a Hemingway and I am less flattered 
than dismayed;

Call me Kafka, confused;

A Rilke, searching for a solid self, loving fearsome angels;

A Tolstoy, convoluted, tormented, ashamed of my lusts.
Do not call me an artist.
Do not call me a poet. 

I am disinclined to this shadow kingdom;
I long for the light.

I will not go silent,
I will not go gentle

—I will not go at all into this good night.
I am not a writer:

I am a flower, a star;
I am the dusk

Raging against the dying of the light.

Question for the Artistically Inclined

SameOldSoul

Joined December 2008

  • Artist
    Notes
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