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Thursday, May 24, 2012


Where does the fragile yet pliable language of art reside? I, as a writer, believe art in all forms has a universal consciousness. Living inside the soul of an artist, an image begins, this idea germinates and evolves to a moment where the internal world can no longer house its need, and art is born. Born of its own cognition. I wrote Authentic Inspiration by my need to string words together to form the intimate language of poetry. TJKG

Authentic Inspiration

The beginning of life blooms
a promise of fragile inspiration,

just as you are.

An organic pattern of
self-proclaimed truth, the extraordinary

without meekness,
a medium mistress.

A muse nibbles around natural control,
driven into crazy consummation,

a passionate kiss.
However slight,

the shadows are following you,
a comeuppance of neglected memory—

as you try to create a silhouette to hide,
the gray outline is what haunts you.

You can’t silence yourself from me.
You can’t escape your mind of me.

The apothecary of the brain
creates primary shades of realities like

our memories, like our bodies; we return
to dust after we slide into death’s fa├žade.

It is not life or death, it is all life.

Or is it a simple stand for a painted canvas, a portrait
of a face that can surrender to the allusion of

horror or eternal beauty.

The indescribable mania of authentic inspiration
each time happiness settles in the green of your bones;

your art is the one breath forbidden to be taken and yet

you breathe.


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