By Bud Koenemund
Pain is the cost
of living, and mem’ry
Its tithe; images
– good and bad – that dwell
To merge art with
a mind in jeopardy;
Risking yet another
descent toward Hell.
Like any addict, I’ll never be free
Of thy damned compulsion; left forever
Trapped between slavery and liberty,
‘Til the mortal coil has been severed.
While my scars will linger, and the bruises –
An ugly, yellow-black – refuse to fade,
There is some profit when anguish ‘comes muse,
And, by genius is suffering repaid.
There is truth
in the misery that haunts:
mine, and I can touch it if I want.