The Ecstasy of Art - A Poem
This is for the man who plays the piano with a furious glee for a drunken crowd who will never remember his name.
This is for the painter who has nothing for material but a discarded cardboard box from the garbage as her canvas and her blood as paint.
They do it for the love of it.
For the singer who sings to strangers in the night with no hope of reward besides the joy of touching a soul,
For the writer who feverously writes a soliloquy on bar napkins as he pays for his drinks with a poem to the pretty bartender,
And for the comedian whose jokes fall flat, who fails and fails again until he can hear the sweet symphony of laughter.
For the sculptor whose hands are calloused and raw for a statue that may never be seen,
For the rapper who hasn’t left the studio in days because his flow hasn’t been perfected,
And for the fighter who is bloodied and beaten but refuses to yield because he has one more breath in him, which may be enough to take to him to glory.
This is for us,
For we know the ecstasy of art.
May we be driven wild and mad for it.
Mad. Mad. Mad!
For we take the beatings of life and create the divine out of them.
Because the mere creation of art, at any grade, is to touch the gods.
The world will punish us for the sacred knowledge we uncovered, but we share it with them still,
Because we take pity on the mediocre and the fucking boring.
We may never have fame or riches, but we will be filled with the madness and beauty of life.
May we burn bright in our moment on the stage of life;
Burn bright like a comet falling in the clear night sky.
Burning bright for just an instant, but enough to bring wonder and awe to those who watch.