How do they know...

Why is that so many
great writers felt
the need to struggle,
almost in utter poverty..,
that it was where
their talent lied --
that fame, success, stability
and riches
would rob them of their edge --
they were sure of it.
The writers that instinctually knew --
believed..,
in an unwritten process,
never spoken of out loud…
The ability to peel back all the bullshit
and expose humanity --
face the demons..,
disguised by their fear and phobias.
That the feeling and emotion,
that connected them
to their heart and soul
would be
stripped away from them.

The part of themselves
they are
in-touch with,
that reaches inside of us --
reading our thoughts.
Knowing who we completely are..,
all the flaws
we hide from the world -- ourselves
themselves…
That the suffering --
sometimes extreme..,
is better than the chance
of becoming a douche-bag,
suffering in ambiguity --
the monotony of the world.
The risk of of losing
their autonomy --
to a system that only
acknowledged their existence
with disregard and condescension.

Is that knowing,
they will never feel
as deeply,
as they do now…
Something that comes to them
in the dark of the night --
the darkness in their mind,
staring right back
at them in their reflection,
under the glow
of bad fluorescent lighting
in the john
of the local dive,
as they drown themselves
in booze --
trying to tame
the same demons
they held
in an almost pious reverence,
witnessing the irony
of their lives
in the bottom of a glass..,
unabashedly accepting it terms.
What was it inside them --
outside them,
that made them believe
in a concept,
destined to harshening
their lives, only to reveal
their contribution and brilliance,
the importance
of their existence..,
long after they were gone --
how do they know…


Image Source: 1