I Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly
Every work of art ever made
Was conceived in pain, I think.
It is beautiful on its own,
Pain,
But to think that a soul could be so twisted,
So damaged, so worn
And bent
And wrung,
And then, gather itself together,
Enough to make something-
Anything-
It is more than beautiful.
It is beauty.
It is why so many artists are so sad.
Making poetry doesn’t hurt people-
Hurting people make poetry.
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