Is all art born of pain?
Jagged emotions, pulling the creator from the soul
To paint out the sorrow, the anger,
To sing to the world of the difficult times
The darker thoughts
In my mind, I know that I write more when I’m emotionally overset.
I pour out more, like thick syrup over bitterness
Maybe trying to temper it, to lessen it
By sharing, by giving it to the world
In the only manner I know how
Does all art come from pain?
Or is it simply the product of too much emotion, whatever the flavor?
For me, the finest things I have written… all have that bitter tang of suffering, of sorrow, of fear or anger.
My most prolific times have been those of sorrow, of pent-up emotion, searching for an outlet.
And there it is…
In the words.
Born of pain