There stands an irony amused at itself
That the world’s best man made arts
Have in some way derived from pain.
For all the quests for happiness man embarks upon
Isn’t it the most amusing fact that
Pain is what brings out his truest, most raw form.
Pain somehow adds layers to a painter’s brush strokes
Derives metaphors from the unbeknownst corners of the heart
And creates literature par the mundane poetry.
Pain adds the depth to the vocal expression of a singer
Intensifies his lines and connects to an understanding mass
And isn’t a scorned performer the most legendary of all.
For all that lifelong chase for happiness we believe is norm
Isn’t it pain that pushes us over edges to take leaps of faith
& isn’t it pain and hurt that has been the trampoline of heights?
I wonder if irony looks upon our routine happiness chase
And is amused with itself for its best ever game.