He is a total artist.
Pure non-conformist.
His creative genius,
Burning like fire.
But he is mired.
Stuck in darkness.
For it is fueled,
By a sludge,
This fire.
Made of the remains,
Of every grudge.
From the oily residue,
Of every pain,
Both old and new,
Burns the flame.
It will never go out,
Because the pain,
Will never run out.

Art or Science?

Is love ever not an act of faith?
Is there some equation to replace the inner workings of the heart?
Is love science, or is love art?
Many would say both play an equal part.
Either way, it comes down to the leaping,
To find out if a love’s worth keeping,
An analysis of what could be,
Then you have to close your eyes to see,
Walk slowly to the edge with me,
Take my hand,
And jump.