In a puddle of rainwater with
inkblots marring my wrists she asks me
what's wrong. "There's a certain slant
of light," I say and she finishes with
"but don't you see, all artists are
miserable."

But I could

write nine symphonies on one deaf ear,
paint nothing but boxes and blue or
become my tell-tale words
with these hands. They ache for
longing and loss all wrapped up in
bliss and creation and new, like
broken eggshells and birds' wings
flapping helplessly against the cold
bright sunshine.

There's a happiness in acid rain,
a driving force for change and
creation and tomorrow, the
proverbial I chord of time and
space and dissonance.

So no, I tell her. All artists
are not miserable. We're just the ones who
see beauty in the pain. We're just the ones who
know what to create with it.