A Magician in the Court of Inconsequence though no Magic Exists

They would have me bring
Great accolades,
Another’s recognition,
Before reading my pain.
They tell me, to prove worthy
In the court of ignorance,
Before they are able
To themselves judge my worth.
Someone to vouch
For my tears,
My flesh,
My blood.
Come back a man,
You are just a boy,
And no child
Should have a voice.
For prestige
I must come equipped
With prestige
Itself.
Who is anyone
To judge my pain,
When they have never seen
Through my eyes?
They can f*ck their awards,
And not because I fear
I am unworthy,
Their judgment is useless.
What more does an artist need
Than a muse
And love, love, love in abundance.
They brush of sorrow,
The colour of veins diluted with spirit,
The canvas of life itself,
And a heart able to break, again and again?
What more do I need
Than a woman and a scythe,
The world, it’s joys
And sorrows?
Music aplenty, for those
Willing to listen,
To see, to be,
To die.
Only in death,
Is any life complete,
So to with love,
Poetry is only heard in tragedies.
What accolades do I need
From all those dying around me,
When one day she’ll read my words
And weep?

By Haemophiliac…
Finished 16/04/2009