When art ceases to be just art, it becomes more than a canvas where you bleed your own truth. You clutch to the billfold of your pieces, you lay bare your hurt, your tears engraved on them, all the suicidal thoughts, rape and past psychological trauma from your childhood memories, you lay them bare on your life canvas, so you call them art. Hoping someone brave enough will see past the tragedies, and appreciate your dark smile, even when you’re struggling to smile less often. Deceiving yourself that it’s just art. Everyone who reads perceives you as some sort of a genius. A master to your own Descriptions, who tragically opens his fresh fatal wounds, but none of you, not even a single one of you, heals them. They love it when it’s deeper. When it cuts through. The world gives you a standing ovation, astonished, everyone adulates you. For a moment you feel like some sort of a giant, when the world carries you on its maim. Can’t you see how weightless you’ve become?
But life is just a comical business, and there’s nothing funnier than love travelling through the confines of time that’s bound to obliterate. Puzo reminds me. You’re loneliest when in the midst of a crowd. You’ve conquered the world, when at home you have nothing to go back to. It’s easy for them to say they love you. They do it all the time. She does it. In that sane moment of sincerity, your naivety becomes a weakness, so you believe their words. Even when they’re just temporary. You’ve found some abode in the lies. You’ve develop a stage fright each time you’re on the mic. The audience chants your name, hands raised up, banners written how amazing you are. Till the stage fright effervers. So you give your best performance. Eerie. When the show is over. The audience waddles away. From the back stage, you emanate, towel wrapped up on your nape. You stare at the empty seats. The chants fades away. All that’s left are echoes. A reminder that moments ago, they were all here with you.
Back at home, you can’t find sleep. Back at home the kitchen sink full of used and recycled plates stares back at you. You can’t find sleep. Every song you’ve ever sang. Every poetry you’ve ever written, comes echoing in your mind. The moments when you’re on the spotlight performing. All opens up your wounds. Once again, you’re living the episodes once more. Each line, each chant reminds you of 10 years ago, perhaps 18 years back. You cannot dare forget. Each stanza takes you back to the molestation. You close your eyes and all you can see is an abusive father. You open your eyes and you remember that you lost your mother when she was the only one who vouched for you. You remember your hit piece, the one that they love. The piece that was your breakthrough. It reminds you of that night pumping pills in the shower. When they had to revive you back to life. Such nights you can’t find sleep. So you take some pills and pump in some more. You see them, you reach out for the world. But they’re looking away. No one sees you. No one knows you.
Before you know it, a shadow grows big and big on your walls. It creeps under your bed. It’s another night, depression engulfs you. When you wake it’s the same thing over and over again each night. They think it’s just art, when it’s your hurt. Sometimes, you stretch your hands out, you stagger. Barely are you steady. Sometimes and only sometimes, you look for what’s true, but it’s hard to find. You keep reliving the tragic moments.
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As written by Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
A Heart_Art_Poetics productions
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