Phoenix

       Writing. Like music, forever my perfect partner. They are both always there when I need them. And I am always there for them. I love them beyond measure, and they reciprocate. I will never leave them, and they will never leave me. No matter what. We both give each other to each other.
       Together, we experience something sacred; something bigger than ourselves yet so very personal. Together, we create our own very intimate magic.
       I’ve posted a lot about music (click on the orange word “music” and easily get to them all, including this one, which will appear at the top of the page). Everything I say about music, I can say about writing. And that realization just came to me, right now, as I’m writing this very post. I love it when that happens. When I can use the moment to comment on the moment.
       At times when I’m in a lot of pain, I often write poetry. Writing down what’s going on inside of me when I’m in those dark places is critical to getting me out of them. When I get away from my writing, or my music, I stay in those places longer. And I’m never doing that shit again.
       Some of the best poetry comes from a place of great hurt and sorrow. Just like music. It’s not the pain that creates the great song, or the great poem, but the depth of the emotion one accesses. That emotion can be anything from great joy to great pain to great lust to great love. But you must fully experience that emotion to create something big from it.
       Like a perfect form of renewable fuel, our feelings fuel the creative engine. And that engine is what moves people with our expressions.
       I wrote the following poem about fifteen years ago. Although I was in a very painful place, I created something beautiful. That’s the splendor of art. From the ashes rises the phoenix.    
    

 

IS MY LIFE JUST AN IMAGINARY TALE            

Is my life just an imaginary tale
Where I make up all the characters
Where I make up myself

Is my life just an imaginary tale
Where everyone and everything is real
Except me

Is my life just an imaginary tale
Where I make up all the everything
To keep myself real

Do I live inside this story
Or do I live outside of it
And exist simply to tell what I see

Is my life just an imaginary place
Where happiness only happens to other people
And which leaves me hurt and scared and alone

Is my life just an imaginary tale
That I tell to myself as I meander through the days
Do I exist just to narrate this meaningless story to myself

Is my life just someone else’s story
Seen through my eyes

©2012 Clint Piatelli & Red F Publishing. All Rights Reserved.