how.

much.

longer.

the night it cuts like daggers

tortured artist.
cliché, i know.
i hate the way it sounds
the way it feels behind my eyes.
but it's there,
and it somehow fits.

they say it worked
for Sylvia,
Charles
and Anne.
that is,
as far as their work was concerned.
but my mind wanders to the night
when the wind picked up
and the silence rolled out of bed.

i don't always want to lay here,
alone,
and sleepless
consorting with the dark.

i've heard art imitates life,
but i think it imitates truth.

sometimes i'm not quite sure
what i should do with the truth
that crouches behind my heart
like some sort of dark beast.

i hope to GOD i don't always write like this.
one day i will conjure up words
that mothers will read to their children
in the light beam of gardens.

and it will be beautiful
and nothing will hurt.