Just quickly, I have three poems up at Dead Snakes - Two are true stories, the first about someone I know and the third a personal experience. The second is my frustration with the rigidity of university, not simply my experiences (I did two years but did not complete) but stories I've heard from others.
The whole tortured artist thing is worn unfortunately, clichéd and even taken on by some as they try to create an image that they think will sell or that is cool. There's really nothing cool about it. For those genuinely afflicted, its very unpleasant. So instead of trying to deny that or dispute it, (as I've never really mentioned it as such) instead I'll say I'm a creative person who happens to carry around fluctuating strengths of 'baggage' - without wanting to throw in overused (and under appreciated) words like anxiety, depression, alcohol, medication... Sometimes in gets in the way of creating, and a lot in the way of life. And sometimes it helps with creating.
Occasionally I do something good. Yet once, I did something amazing. Here's a poem I wrote about it.
I did good
I dream in shoegaze colours
Of frustration and exposure
And failed ventures
(How I assume)
I really feel about myself.
There are issues
(so psycho-babble theories dictate)
Rather than suggesting
That this is simply the design of the machine.
Mistakes like seams,
Flaws like daybreak
Light slicing into the tranquil
And while I do attempt to rectify them
I only move on to make new ones.
Lord, forgive me for what I have done
Though I don’t believe
We must believe in something
And it allows me someone to confide in.
Damage as steam
Searing with residue
There was her
And cautious manoeuvres
As though carved up
Out of failures
In metaphysical defiance
She is better than I ever was or will be
(albeit one divided from two)
And that beaming face looking up
I did good.