To the man whose mind fires up each day
like a jet-plane engine, power and chaos
pulsating through the body, always daring to lift off --
to go somewhere else or fly higher still:
And to the man who feels the intensity
of each breath and heartbeat,
who wakes up each day to two potions on the counter,
both of which he must drink,
one labeled "joy," the other "despair,"
each moment pulling him deeper
into both life and death, light and dark,
a liminal existence in the shadows:
The goal is not always to quiet both,
especially if his thoughts are sound,
the engine quaking,
and his emotions balanced,
both cups empty,
but rather for his mind to rage on
and the plane to go nowhere at all,
for his heart to burst open
yet for none to enter in,
for a true artist thinks and feels outside the cages
of affirmation and affection.
He swims in complexity and feels each sensation
but needs no validation.
He lives a story that no one has to read.
By Stephen Copeland
This poem was first published on www.copelandwrites.com.