What Need Have They
Many believe that a troubled soul
is the true muse of the true artist.
That misery and anger brings out
the words, brush strokes, of creation.
I don't know if that's right or not,
e'en though it affects me deep -
but I find it strange that most
don't ask why such may be.
The only answer I can conjure
is actually yet another question.
What do the happy have to create?
What need have they to make, to escape?
In part, I have trouble agreeing,
for I have written wonders
in times of relative ease;
or so I've been told.
I have walked gaily through spring,
and spoke of dewy fields of clover;
arbitrary, aimless, desultory subjects,
irregularly chosen by my mercurial muse.
And yet I can also see it, in part,
for my thieves of one's breath
were in times of onerous strife;
or so I've been told.
I have trudged below naught but clouds,
and spoke of grey days and black thoughts;
distressed, disheartened, dejected prose,
regularly presented to my downcast sight.
I believe emotion, good and ill,
can be victuals for the right muse.
But I concede the point that comparatively,
what have the joyous to escape, through art?
Copyright © Andy Sprouse | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment