Poem -
Passion and Pain
I can't draw,
I can't rhyme,
In fact I can't do much at all...
I lack creativity and imagination,
Especially when I'm happy,
So I hunt good men
Like prey in the night,
And I prick my fingers
Over and over
On the roses they plant,
Bleeding all over them
Until there's so much blood
They drown in it,
Just to feel the
Pain
Of their passing,
So I can pour it all
Into these pages,
And pretend I have anything worthwhile to say,
Basking in the validation of strangers
Who soak it up
And call it
Passion.
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Comments
I like how the two words of your title are assigned lines to themselves. It is fitting and very effective. And they are in the perfect places in your poem. As to its meaning I have never been reticent about laying on a page how I interpret another's writing. I have read your poem a number of times and I always come to the same conclusion. That you are writing about the sometimes tortured process of creating art through words. Particularly when those words are of a personal nature which for me poetry generally is, and the writer of them sometimes has doubts about their validity. Just as I have doubts about the validity of my interpretation. Sorry if I got it hopelessly wrong.
Wrong or right it is a great piece of writing.