poem: burning advice

They break my heart.

“Do it for love.
Give up on any pretensions
of eating or paying your bills
through this labor.
You know,
these words you write
and the art you make
have no use.

“It is time to acknowledge
failure.

“You have to accept
that you cannot eat bliss.

“Your joy is irrelevant
to your debtors.
We, your friends,
are tired
of watching you struggle.
You have to realize
that your art
is just for your own benefit.

“Do it for the love of it,
in your spare time,
and give up the rest.”

i want to take their words outside
and burn them
under the full moon.
This is not helpful.
This feels astoundingly cruel.
To take away the one thing
that gives life meaning
and expect me to act
as though this wisdom
is a gift?

No.

i willingly embrace madness
when your reasonable sanity
would rob me
of my reason for living.

i become the villain,
using up resources,
failing to pay my bills,
struggling through injury and illness
only so i can make art again.

But, i have no other choice.

There are only 24 hours
in a day,
and i have so little energy,
i must be merciless
in where i put my effort.
Every moment wasted
hurts my soul.

If i do not give myself over
to the mistress of art
who has saved me so often,
there will be nothing left of me
to survive.

After they have their say,
and my tears
have exhausted themselves,
i burn their words
on the altar
of my unreasonable,
insane hope.

20 november 2015

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