They say I am no artist,
That I was born with a silver spoon
And without the understanding
That life does not come easily
To the rest.
I have lost no ears to madness,
No life has been taken from depression,
No solace has been found in addictions.
Because there is no fault to this existence,
But who will see me as what I am;
An artist defined by his successes,
Never his failures.
Even if I found the silver lining in hell,
There would be no merit to this discovery.
I am no demon,
Clawing from the depths of the underworld
Toward redemption and salvation.
I have not overcome the persuasions
Of this world,
To arrive at a place such as solace and peace
Because I had first dabbled in misdeeds.
This place called comfort and joy is my home.
I own it,
I owe it no debts.
And though I say "Hark!" to thee,
Warning of the misguidance of those who seek
Only your favor,
You have listened to me only for a moment.
I am like cool water,
Quenching the thirst of your desperation
When you are dry.
But when you are full,
And happy, you have no need for my understanding.
This planet cannot house my soul.
I was born with my fingers dipped into the
White hot heat of the stars.
I ride waves no man can tread,
And this glory I have seen
Is available to all,
I have tried to show it.
Yet because I have not suffered the world,
Do not think I cannot see
Into the heart of your mourning,
So warm and wrapped in the comfort of your
And self hate that you are a wall of deprecation.
If I had been a poor child,
Locked inside a dark closet with a light unseen,
Only then would you think me capable of such words.
We cannot value what we do not have;
I have seen this impossible and tackled it swiftly,
For the glass has never been half empty,
Always half full.
And when I am gone
Many will hearken these words as though
They were, before, a secret.
As if I were a puzzle in which only my death could solve.
But these are fools and sheep.
My life has been a declaration since my birth,
And Love flow through my veins like water.
If I die unaccomplished
And you remember me an artist,
You are too late.
Do not value me only upon my expiration.
I was an artist then,
And in death it is exhaled.
In death I am but your misunderstanding.
These are the lamentations of fortune.
Not that I have come to this place
From the depths of hell which I had once succumbed,
But because there was never such a thing as
That which I could not overcome.