Roots Before Branches

The Artist

The artist you once saw in your nightmares was tortured; deprived of clean air.

Basements covered in violent sprays of paint,
Mansions bought with blood money.
His art wishes he were a saint,
Consumed by a glimpse of glory.
And, his parents never did like the man he became,
Overcome with anti-penance and a broken spirit,
All he ever knew was shame; an unaltered sense of weakness.

The man you see in your dreams is a tortured artist,
Beloved in your eyes but betrayed by his own.
His creativity is simply an envious game; one he might forfeit.
Is this really his only way back home?
The man you see in your dreams is a tortured artist,
A poet on the brink of brutal promise.

Literature torn at the seams,
Relationships ruined by whispers of negativity.
Hopelessness submerges itself within his screams,
Halting any and all chances of him reaching his ability.
A studio resembling a mausoleum,
He can't count the amount of stories that died here,
The bones of the books create a hollow museum,
Once written with love but unwritten in fear.

The man you see in your dreams is a tortured artist,
Beloved in your eyes but betrayed by his own.
His creativity is simply an envious game; one he might forfeit.
Is this really his only way back home?
The man you see in your dreams is a tortured artist,
A poet on the brink of brutal promise.

Dizzying spells of writer's block,
Characters all bleeding into one.
Is this why he feels so lost?
Has he forgotten to have some... fun?

The man I see in the mirror was once a tortured artist,
A writer on the verge of a cursed promise.
But, after battles and struggles with entities I cannot explain,
Lightbulbs lit and epiphanies emerged,
Something pushed away my pain,
Chaos could very well cradle courage.
This box I've lodged myself into is the most clichéd of tropes,
A mirror image of everyone's demons;
Suicide is glamorous and death is hope.
Counteractive solutions to redundant reasons.

I'm shedding skin I didn't even know I had,
Taking one for the team, a bullet to the heart.
Maybe I had to go through such glorious agony to feel glad,
I had to find my out; find my way to my own art.
The man I once saw in my nightmares was once a tortured artist,
On the heels of a poetic, fatal promise.

I love that I didn't know how to love what I love,
It made me know I am enough.
I took a vow with myself in the mirror yesterday,
I promised that as long as I have this creative outlet,
And I have a bad day,
I'll always write poems about it,
And force the pain away.
The artist you once saw in your dreams will be brand new the next time you fall asleep.