Made a living at it,
But can’t teach anyone
To be an artist.
All my life I’ve fought
This sensitivity to light—
Shrinking from the glare
Of others' gaze in fright,
And writing by myself
In shadows late at night.
I don’t understand it
And when young despised it—
I was writer then
But not an artist.
But once I lost my swagger,
And life humbled me—
I cried easily
And wrote differently.
Life took all my blest sorrows,
Lost loves and griefs,
Fears and abandonments
And sealed my lips,
And then thawed
And froze my feelings
Into improbable shapes
Until at last nothing else remained.
I don’t pretend to be a hero
In a film noir
But until life has broken you
You can't make art.