Being An Artist

------------------------------------------------ Have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but the overacuteness of the senses? - Edgar Allen Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart ------------------------------------------------ I have seen men forget to Look at themselves And ponder on their souls and their hearts: There they sit and smirk and giggle At the frailties of fellow man And at the fallibility of another. Through misty dawn till dusk Their lips move with stealth Defaming and cursing at ease Playing with the Cello of Death. "He is insane, you can wager on that," "A bastard, he thinks like a swine," "He is spiritually dead, sold for cowries," Atrocious words from evil tongues. A poet like me has been so addressed Since my thoughts and ways are irrational: The artist from Plato's time to present Has lived under despicable sight. Artists are strange people In art they have found themselves; In art they have found truth, happiness- So, why call them mad? Why call them mad? The persecutors burn with evil and delight, And they are of the perfece breed, they think- The best corn in the stack, hear them sing The artist's head wedged beneath their legs. written- 18th Feb. 2014 3:50 PM