2012-01-22 12:04I stand here before you
with a clarity of purpose
that it falls
just short of lead.
Of purpose, I find that I am rarely certain,
still I am driven,
that these things must be done.
It is as innate, and yet unknown to my conscious being,
as the red and white cells that populate my blood.
"Why art?" they ask, concerned, fearful, dubious.
Is it mental illness?
Is he a pervert?
Was he not loved enough by his mother?
The answer is as incomprehensible to them,
as their question is to me.
"Why breathe?" I respond.
an answer that is both wholly inadequate
and unerringly exact.
Art is my breath.
Sometimes calm and restorative.
More often ragged and and frothed with rage...
Or urgent, and hot, and full of lust.
But also, sometimes,
shallow and forgotten.
And if it is withheld,
or by some force,
taken from me,
I know for certain,
I will perish.