Four Horsemen


Pestilence
                    
Her lack of muse plagued him


War
                    
He fought to protect her voice


Famine
                    
He hungered for her written worlds


Death
                    
His wrists bled beautiful songs for her



Confusion
                    
He hoped she understood his performance
Posted/Updated on November 17th, 2018

Four Horsemen, except there are five. Seems some people cannot understand my lack of muse, considering my life is in a far better place than it was a year ago. However, as the saying goes, “those who don’t understand your silence will never understand your words.” Art is not simply the act of putting paint on a canvas, or stringing words together in proper form. Technical skill is wonderful, but it does not take the place of burning passion. Some of the most lovely art is created during the destruction and barren-ness of war, and some of the worst creative dry spells are suffered during times of good and plenty. Art comes from the soul, and when the soul is damaged, all of the perfections in life will not bring happiness. Nor can times of darkness and defeat dampen the brightness of a soul on fire.

Write or die. You see, most of the time I wish I was dead, so that is hardly a motivation.

We don’t create art, we bleed it. Thus -- if you can’t understand my silence...