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.
Copyright © Little Sperling | Year Posted 2017
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment