to a point where it will
be tempting to give up.
This will happen many times.
Nobody has an obligation
to push through,
but if you believe you are
the real thing,
you just will
even when you don't want to.
This is how you discover
who you really are.
This is when you have to use
the very skill you claim to possess
to weave a world in which
you are among the very best.
This is not done with words
or even with external achievements.
This is done in secret,
over time.
It is done in the details
that you spy
which others overlook
but are precious and important.
You who see the game
the wide lens unframed
depth of the whole thing,
you are the one
who disturbs the force around you,
yes.
Your energy might effervesce
your way might confess
what you've seen
who you've been
who you are,
therein is the test.
Can you endure
the spellbinding poetry
magnetic to the vagrant eye?
It tells tales of all parts of you,
these are the voices from which we shy away.
But they that seem to beam
from within you
and into others around you,
as if reading, as it were,
between the lines;
what is that text, exactly,
which is written in actions
giving a metaphysics
to our hearts and our minds?
Might that not be
the eternal poetry of time?
Something endless,
in your chest and mine?
Whilst I rhyme and write lines
you solve some other predicament
happening now, in our time,
and so we are the same,
at service to life
and each other
in our own way.
Can you endure
the loneliness
the vague psychosis
the alienation of a world of folk
who think they'll call
you're bullshit?
Are you so sure,
is ultimately the question.
Are you so sure
of your intent,
that it is indeed divine?
Do you have the courage
to look into a dubious eye
and speak your whole
complex truth
in a glance or a smile?
Did you hear the laws spoken?
did you ever walk alongside lightning?
Did the pigs fork you
like animals at a formal dinner?
Did the great minds of each time
each era,
did they sound like family
of some other sort?
Did you think that maybe
things could be different
that you had and have the answer
with no way to deliver it?
Did you dream big and feel a fool?
Did they laugh at you
and energize your ego
and make you better
with their ugly, shitty love?
Did you learn to love them, too;
those haters, losers,
those liars afraid of their truth?
If you didn't,
you are not you.
You are some version of them,
a shade of gray behind the wind,
of a storm that always comes
and says it is innocent.
And that is okay, too.
An artist is one who
breaks himself
to be true
(not to know the truth).
He may never express it
as we egoic do
(writing and painting and dancing and song)
but if he does it
that deep work
where the gears of infinity lock
and work their magic into life
then he has made art
and he will be art
because courage to be true
and being it, through and through,
is to be nearest to your essence
that of God's light.
