God is Suffering


I just want to feel like an artist. I don’t necessarily have to be one, just feel like one.

Staying up late unable to sleep, not quite sure if it’s because of all the unfinished cups of coffee you drank or the slight anxiety in your heart that things will never be the same. Aggravated by all the paintings, poems, books, songs, sculptures, and other such things you haven’t created but feel deep inside of you.

If you feel like an artist, you know your teen angst will end up somewhere useful. It will manifest itself as a guiding light for another lost soul. Something another person can relate to, rather than sitting stagnant in your own heart, your own veins, your own tears, and your own fowl blood.

Artists are romantic and loved at a distance. Artists choose to be lonely, for the sake of their art. Artists are shunned by the worst kinds of people and admired by the best.

I envy the lonely studio apartment littered with both fresh and stale memories and attempts. The messy charcoal hands and the peeling paint on their collarbones.

Artists are romanticized. They are a dream figure. They are a prison and a sanctuary.

Artist Life

Artist Life by A7md3mad

If you look hard enough, my art is in my eyes and on my skin. The thin lines that are a few shades lighter across my wrist; the tiny scars from desperate clawing across my shoulders. My art is the clothes I wear and the ache of a starved belly. It’s the suffering I’ve endured and the laughter I’ve forced into the air.

And who’s to say God isn’t just an anguished artist and we’re the scrapped bits?


~ by Moonstruck on August 18, 2013.

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