Art Through Angst
04 August 2021 Wednesday Prose Poem: tracks of writing
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Butting heads inside my chest — they argue, polar opposites — they know no rest, switch the rules all the time — none of the lives I live are mine.
One hand in each glove, owned by something above — puppet on a string, does anything mean anything when I’m just being flung where I’m fling?
Responsible and quiet, irresponsibly violent — always have to imbibe the art, can never just admire it.
It’s therapy, no need to read or see, it’s not important enough — it’s the writers bluff we swore — it’s what is left in the core, sore in the head where it’s borne.
Track marks on the paper, try to capture human nature — try to express something relatable and raw enough to be praised as art and artistic but in my chest the heads still hit each other with the violent creatives guilt I exhibit.
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In response to J.D. Harms prompt!
