Role I Play

I watched my peers perform last night-
Several deep artists, all brilliant, lit on fire, burning with passion.
I sit there. I’m the appreciator. Artists need the reader, the viewer, the decoder…
I’m here. But only to observe?
All art is art, I know.
But what do I feel? You need to feel to art.
Me, here, now, always am a bundle of sorrow, of frustrated cry of anguish, of a torture that endures and lives on, waking every morning with a roar.
All of this, with tears running down my face, I sit and breathe in the art,
The art that dazzles, that bites, like frosty air, breaking you into localised goosebumps.
I’m good in the role of an appreciator, because what I feel is best locked up- not breaking into a song, lyric or poetry, safe inside of me, an unidentified scream of a swirl of horrors, of terrors that tear and howl and render to rags my soul,
my twisty soul that sighs and smiles in the hopes that one of them is fatal.
I sit there and through my tears,
I smile.


Rights to the featured image are the artist’s alone.

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