Sisyphean (Poetry)

I am an artist,

That comes with some faults,

For I’m also an addict.

Two things, at odds.

My tools of the trade,

Also my weapons of war.

Turn them out, they create.

Turn them in, they hurt.

I enter the battle,

Of a studio space,

Weave around relapse,

Try to create.

Dodging saws,

Evading sanders,

Skirting torches and blades.

Attempt an art piece

Without losing my way.

Finally done.

Yet far from over.

A piece isn’t finished,

Without a border.

Mats to be cut,

Frames to be made.

More chance for slip-ups,

More chance for mistakes.

It’s a hard thing surviving,

Wouldn’t I know.

My savior’s my torment,

Hair trigger waiting to blow.

Every day a battle.

Every piece a fight.

Trial by fire,

A constant test to my drive.

Still I push a boulder,

Up a hill each day.

Struggle in a studio.

Fight for each and every piece to be made.

It’s killing me slowly.

And sometimes I do fall.

Yet I’d rather withstand,

Then make nothing at all.

Creative endeavors.

One day at a time.

Self-harm or self-expression.

Art heals the mind.