written by: John Patrick Robbins
Poe was forty years old when he was found beaten half to death in some dirty alley in Baltimore.
He never saw the rewards of his brilliance yet he certainly met the rejections of this life’s bitter existence.
So many would never taste the fruits of their labor.
When in art in most cases far too many are in the ground before
others catch the spark that turns to a wildfire.
I write as a madman hundreds of writings stored away awaiting the scent of fresh air.
The vault knows truths even I don't fully fathom.
I do not sell myself as anything more than one of many when it comes to writing.
I pen the work.
I never question where it comes from.
It simply commands my thoughts like the insane scratch at the asylum walls for release.
To know you are one is a burden.
For art is a sacrifice of one's life.
True brilliance doesn't come without its burdens.
Be careful when you tread amongst giants.
For their view is a lonely one indeed.