in the works.

the candles are burnt down to the wick

and i still got nowhere to go.

this is

no love song

no tragedy,

no indie rock star movie scene.

this is just a chilly dank and damp evening

too early to sleep and too late to speak.

and nobody will leave this poem alive.

because art is death

or rather,

art is a deconstruction and reconstruction

of life, of love, of all that good stuff

that makes you get up in the morning

and look out the window

and see diamonds in the dew on the leaves

and your grandmother's hair in the clouds in the sky

and the broken spirit lying just underneath

the surface of that

boy you sat across from on the subway

and the ecstasy in a woman's face

when her newborn baby falls asleep against her breast.

but really

art is a crystalline castle

a fortress you build piece by piece

line by line

sketch by sketch

to guard yourself from the intricacies

and reality of the world around and within you

but no

art is another dimension

where you can chuck every thought

every emotion all imagination into creation

no obstruction and it's just you

and it

and it's beautiful.

and sometimes you've just gotta do it

because nothing else can make you feel

and nothing else can make you love

and cry and hate and scream and smile

the way that art can.