A tendency amongst the creative types
That produce stand-out art of a "different kind"
Is to release their thoughts to run amok;
To unsecure all insecurity, to perfectly free their mind.
It's like a lair lies deep within the grey matter,
Amidst firey paths of thought, and cerebral fluid rivers
That a Loki-like renegade muse is trapped by default
But when his guard is let down, he delivers.
He launches Molotov cocktails of emotion against your brain's walls,
Shrapnel from years of feelings, experiences and hurt.
He takes billboards of memories and hammers them in plain sight,
And splatters an obligation to use them all over your shirt.
At first you may fear him, and his arsenal of angst
Scared to face it,, you might beg for him to leave.
But if you embrace the chaotic mess of life he presents
You might find he's actually granting you a reprieve.
By allowing this mess of "amokness" to play out;
By grasping the dishevelled disarray with pen or brush in hand
You can find its not as grotesque as you thought.
It's a valuable commodity, materials only you can understand.
So though he may seem a tyrant,
A rude interruption making calamity rain in torrents,
This muse running amok, and allowing you to run with it
Is what lets us make art from parts we find abhorrent.
Our grievances, our misjudgements, our failures...
Our moments of remorse, our regrets
Are all just shambolic mediums within us
That just haven't been shaped into a masterpiece yet.
Don't fear your inner abominable afflatus,
Free him, even feed him, let him out!
By butchering your canvas of chaotic memories,
He'll quench your thirst in the midst of a poeticule's drought.