By Elizabeth Mcfarland
I want to make art even more than I want to breathe,
I want to promise everyone I am enough,
That I will turn pain into prose,
And hurt to Haikus.
That I will be good entertainment for the masses,
Like the Classics.
Please,
I will carve stories into my arms with green fluorescent ink,
if it meant I could be art.
Test me,
I beg you,
I will do anything
I would hear the gasps in the hospital room
like a symphony,
after I realized it could be done.
The notes,
all different tones,
would hit me like a freight train,
shattering glass all at once,
like a car crash,
please.
Maybe that is inspiration enough?
Just tell me I did it well,
That I exist,
give me a slot in the list of the classics,
the Fantasticks,
I want to know what it is that they have
that I don’t.
I wonder if it is the feeling of being turned inside out.
Of dissolving and becoming
All at once.
I really don’t care how it feels.
Even if it’s like dying,
Or like bliss.
Does it really matter?
I just want to feel it more than living.
I want to be art more than living
too.
Post Script Magazine. 