Do you tire of pain?
Are you weary of suffering?

Once I found healing
my pen ran dry
And what does it say of a poet
if she has nothing to write when she’s happy?

Is this why we artists are so tortured?
Our souls bleed and weep onto the page
the pen like a needle in our arm
feeding our addiction to venom
the sweet, sweet pleasure
of our own suffering
mainlining our rage and grief
into our audiences
getting you hooked
on the ejaculation
of our shame and secrets
leaving you sticky
and needing a hot shower

Was it good for you?
Are you satisfied?
Or would you prefer to make out for a while?
Spoon and snuggle?
Gaze up at the stars from a blanket?
Find awe in all the beauty,
marvel at all the good?

Would you hear me if I didn’t shout?
Believe me I didn’t spit?
Love me if I were unmiserable?

Poets are not just truth tellers
calling out the sins of the past
but visionkeepers, harbingers
of possible futures
We’re not starving for lack of dreams
but in spite of them

Whitman said, “to have great poets
there must be great audiences”

So let us both be great

Let us feast
on a more diverse diet of human story
and make lovewords
alongside our painbodies
creating the world we fantasize
with our breath.

© S. Rinderle, 2014