Work Text:
Laymen don't know that art is hard work.
You toil and tell yourself it's nothing worth,
That the shapes in your mind are arguing with each other,
On which one is the key to your higher self - the Soul-Mother.
"The old master is obsessed over dissonance," I said,
Thinking it was nasty for the sake of nasty.
But there's always soul under verisimilitude,
Hidden beneath all the powers of two.
A poem about poets is always useless,
There's no material reality changed with it, not like
I'm that proactive anyway (I'm a love poet,
I'll admit it) - but I like these nonetheless.
I make hidden treasure, I love to be known.
I cleaned my meat down to the bone,
Thinking that my soul was too charred and ugly
For fellow travelers to feel any less alone.