I love Poets and writers,
for they deal with the same condition that I do.
There is always something unfinished, always something left unsaid,
always an inner condition that chooses to remain unconscious,
and always this nagging feeling that they can do so much more better than their last poem or story.
On most days it feels like there is no anaesthesia for this madness that is reality,
and the only way we can breathe and be normal is by being poets and writers,
or by creating art, or connecting to what treasures our abilities to see and perceive,
but people usually trap and hold us down by a false image of perfection which we can never reach.
Art comes from broken places, art is a redemptive force for sensitive hearts, timid souls and tender minds.
Art is shy but fierce,
Art is pure but without filter,
Art is taken for granted, but awakens what the dormant mind has slumbered into.
Art needs to endure what is real, for only art teaches us to discipline our minds and hearts to the harsh blows of force.