Cyanide Lakes

the artist

2016

I find it ironic,
How our brightest of works
Stem from our darkest of moments.

We turn our pain into beauty
And hope others will relate.
But with such talent
Comes a burden.
There is only so much
We can take.

Happiness and self-acceptance
Is what my heart truly wants.
Yet every stanza I write
Proves that I am but a paradox.
I pride myself
In my creative thinking;
I am proud to be unorthodox.

But my artistry is accompanied
By a lifelong affliction,
One that can never be cured,
For I find my inspiration
In death, depression,
Heartbreak, and lies.
The image of the tortured artist
Is one that never seems to die.

Who could forget
The tragic inspirator
That was Edgar Allan Poe?
He mourned the loss
Of his love, his mind,
And his wife.
He wrote of death
Because it was the only constant
In his life.

But of all my goals and aspirations,
There is one that means the most:
To help all that I can,
And assure that none
Turn to ghosts.