The Tortured Artist by Justin Farley
Utterly bound by the need for discovery,
yet plagued by the awareness that finding
leaves me no farther along my journey
in the eyes of the world.
The most tortured artist is the realist
who’s aware he’s playing the fool,
but must play his role regardless,
knowing it’s the only powerful card in his hand.
For if alternative aspirations
are not trumped by other’s Bowers,
in the end he’ll be defeated
by the chaos that rises out of self-neglect.
The artist must find pleasure in playing
a game few have the wits to play,
acknowledging he’s likely destined to lose
before he even sits at the table.
The artist must learn to embrace
this necessary madness;
his fulfillment and sanity
depend upon it.
The creative life must never be lived
with the goal of winning.
One must simply find joy and gratitude
in the ability to bring order out of chaos.
-Poem and post written by Justin Farley
Dream-Weaving – A Poem
The seams of my dreams are unraveling –
Thread stretched out in heaps,
Ensnaring my feet, tripping me, sending me falling
Into jaded existence.
Innocence, where is my resistance to your demise?
This cloak once kept me warm in the night,
but is now tattered, holes allow the howling wind
To chill the depths of my soul.
No longer whole, but unable to pinpoint what’s been lost.
Unable to retrieve a feeling that once was.
Dreams that used to woo me with their tales
Now stir up nothing but bitterness.
They are cold like unearthed stone
And seem better left buried than dug up –
Too hard, too massive, too rigid to be molded into beauty.
I miss lofty ideals and carnival lights
With roller coaster life.
I miss uncertainty and belief in the unknown.
I miss the magic of weaving this cloak of dreams,
Of sewing seams across endless skies.
But the fire in my eyes has died.
Somewhere the flames went out, and I no longer cared.
I no longer dared to see beyond the realm of mundane reality.
And now by and by
I have betrayed my own soul.
I have yielded to the world’s cold mentality.
Beaten upon my breath in my chest until it no longer moved
And resorted to conformity.
I am left with only a ragged, dirty cloak
That use to be radiant,
That sparkled with the swirling of dreams
But they have long ceased to move me.
I yearn to fix the canvas, but don’t know where to start.
I long to believe once more in the magic of art,
But find myself a seamstress without needle and thread
To sew up these holes that life has chewed up and swallowed;
With no way to sweep out the darkness that life has let in.
-Poem written by Justin Farley
photo credit: jinterwas insomnia via photopin (license)
Inkblood – A Poem about the Writing Process
Beneath a pale, July moon
An ancient manuscript sits
Illuminated by candlelight,
Its pages gently rustling in the breeze
Blowing behind the curtains of the nearby window.
The ink is faded beneath
Layers of time and age,
But the wisdom remains
Scribbled in rhymes,
Written eons ago by some old sage.
But tonight it’s voice has a reader –
A man of sandy, blond hair
Ponders over your verses
And reflects on the meaning of your lines.
And like magic, the grime vanishes,
the words sparkle, and come to life.
Your cold, decomposed, long lifeless corpse
May only be fertilizer to the tongues of roots,
But your blood still flows and pulses
Through the pages you stained black with blood from your pen.
The body may have an expiration date,
But thoughts, words, and ideas have no end.
We live on through the pages we inhabit –
Awake to the reader’s touch,
Soar the skies once more, high
On some incomprehensible magic like pixie dust.
I deposit my heart of pains, joys, loves, and flames
Into the safe guard of your keeping.
My receipt is a word count
That compounds with the interest of each reader’s heart.
-Poem Written by Justin Farley
Pic. – onlanka.com
Do you want to know a secret?
One with the power to completely change
your life this very second?
Well, lean closer then.
I’ll have to whisper it in your ear.
We can’t have the whole world knowing the truth.
MAGIC IS REAL.
We each possess forces
we can’t begin to understand –
few even recognize its power
when it’s flowing through them.
Sit down, Sit down.
I beg of you.
Just hear me out before you go…
It’s built the grandest bridges.
Built the tallest skyscrapers in the sky.
Filled thousands of shelves in libraries
and taught airplanes how to fly.
It’s transported people to foreign countries.
Put man on the moon.
Invented cures for disease and illness.
Turned lowly paupers into regal tycoons.
It created the clothes you’re wearing.
Put cars and trucks on the road.
Turned the weak bold and daring.
Is responsible for the light in your homes.
Its spells have relieved madness.
Turned dire outlooks on their heads.
It’ll fill your heart with gladness
and grant dreams as you lie in bed.
It needs no wand for wielding –
no need for incantations or magic words.
It listens to all who are dreaming –
all it asks is to be heard.
But hearing’s not so easy.
Many will try to keep it from you.
The world hates the power it harnesses,
stopping it by laughing at all you do.
Doubt and fear are the only enemies
with the power to stop this magic in its tracks.
So guard your mind and heart
and keep all your dreams intact.
It’s withstood the effects of aging.
Yesterday, today, tomorrow – it’s always the same.
The question is whether you’ll chose to wield it.
Imagination is its name.
Photo Credit: Filter Forge via Compfight cc