Why is it that I feel that I need to be hurting to write a piece of art.
Can't my happiness inspire me just as much?
Sonnets of love and wonder have been written throughout history,
Yet it is Tragedy that piques my muse.
Depression cannot be my only source to pull from.
If I feed the dark cloud that hovers above,
Surely it will only grow.
But it can also give life to the flowers under my toes.
If I can only find the perfect balance.
The choice to nurture is part of my nature,
So I must resist the the urge to self-destruct.
When will that side of me stop fighting for control?
Maybe it isn't supposed to.
Maybe I'm supposed to let it be here,
To give me perfect harmony.
Angst and sadness can only have true meaning,
If you have learned what bliss and contentment can truly be.
You cannot properly understand one
Without the other.
So maybe I will take these lows
And make the art that I know so well
But also take these highs
And make something new and