The blood of artists.

Artist Blood

 

Like Shelley’s water

boating phobia.

 

Like Keats’ blood—

speckling cough.

 

Like Van Gogh’s ear

clipping razor.

 

Like Plath’s oven

burning flesh.

 

Like Cobain’s little

drug addiction.

 

Like Ledger’s alcohol

chased prescription.

 

Like heroin in the addict’s system,

sorrow laces the blood of artists.

 

When I was younger,

I mistook my blood for melancholy.

 

The greats all die young

my professor once told me.

–Laekin

P.S. This is one of my personal favorites.