The Undeserving Artist
A sestina.
I hate to admit it. But I’ll say it to you, now. I committed a crime.
Before you question me, “What? What in the world
did you do? What could it be?” I’ll please ask that you search
and find it in your heart
to not judge me. See, all I did was spill some paint
and it changed the color of the night.
Once I saw the night
had changed, there wasn’t much I could do. I did the crime,
and the paint
was all over my stupid stubby fingers. Even in the cracks of them. Now, the world
is out to get me. To absorb my ugly heart
into the darkness and vomit it onto a map for you to dig and search.
Well, that’s too bad. I said it would be fruitless. I tried to stop them. Now, they search
in the middle of the night
for me and my stupid heart.
Do you think they’ll punish me? For this crime?
I mean, it’s easy to see. The world
hates me. It didn’t ask to be tainted with paint.
Instead, do you think you can take the fall? Here, I’ve got extra paint
If they try and search
you, just run away. There’s no way that you, in this world,
on this night,
would commit this crime,
and destroy your own tender heart.
So if your heart
wavers, about to burst forth, spilling its own paint -
Ah, you see now? You see how easy it is to commit such a crime?
I can’t even rest, they search
endlessly in the night
That’s when they’re most active, so silent a breath would shake the world.
I was rejected by it. The world
did not open its heart;
rather, it shut down. And it said: I would not be able to live another night
and if I paint
with a color so pure you can attest it, there is no search
left to be done, for in truth, there is no crime.
Why must it be so confusing, when the world pours forth its thick paint,
And in my heart, I know there is no search
to save me, or you, or anyone on this very night. Would you say that is a crime?
