A poem that isn't all that important

The black morass,

That is an artist soul.

Is without a doubt,

the most predicable lie.

I speak of this with authority,

Not only have I explored,

the rich depths of sadness and hate,

But i'm also a teenager to boot.

And this wonderful lie,

we tell ourselves,

That "I have seen such darkness,

and that proves there is nothing more"

Chains us, and crumbles our art,

Leaves us with a simple thought,

That if we are to create,

It must plumate into the very bottom,

Of the human soul,

Of the human mind,

it must wrench every fiber of morality,

and twist every heartstring to the max.

WHICH IS A LOAD OF SHIT,

if you'll pardon my french.

La vie est une plaisanterie.

So laugh, god damnit.

To bounce on the surface,

of the almighty mind,

is a bliss which a few,

might know too well.

And is it not an artists job,

to find every inch,

of the human experiance,

and render it, lovingly?

However, being so late,

and me being so tired.

I suppose i'll just pass the task,

on to you.

So, please,

I beg you,

and your most amazing,

ability to create and inspire.

Next time you seek woe,

and you cannot find a light,

to illuminate your page.

Take a moment.

Think of love,

Think of laughter,

Read an FML,

or perhaps, Hyberbole and a Half.

And spread some radiance into the world,

A little light, thats a little lighthearted.

A poem that speaks of flowers,

A poem that speaks of nothing important.