A special kind.. Insight. .A special kind.. Insight.

              Deeply deranged and oddly psychotic. Inside the mind of a good artist, one may be scared, and almost driven to the point of insanity.
             Often times, the most moving, and deeply meaningful works come from a deeply hurt, almost deranged mind. Sometimes bringing forth a sinister calamity. Inside the mixed up, twisted mind of a genius artist, poet, or writer, comes forth the thoughts that would lead one to become committed.
            Some of the weirdest characters in the world, were some of the greatest artists. Not many can say they understand why Poe drank himself to death on absinthe, smoked out on the best opium in arms reach.
None but the artisans and troubadours can understand the neurotic mind of such a man who would cut off his ear, and mail it to his love, just to prove his love. (I certainly do)
            None but those who've been touched in the mind, can understand the neurotic mind of a man such as Hunter Thompson, whose intricate works, weave words and paint a picture in such a way, that a beautifully sculpted work is displayed in your mind that you can make out down to the slightest facial characteristic, yet have complete understanding on why he was so fucking off. To the "normal" mind, Hunter was just weird.                                
To the less than gifted, Vincent Van Gough cutting off an appendage was crazy to say the very least, without the slightest idea on complexities that such a man may harbor. So
deeply in love, that in his mind, really the only way to truly prove it, or even come close to showing the inexpressable, he inflicted a pain unbearable, for his soul mate. The type of love very few in history will ever bear witness to, that was his way of showing the importance of it.
           The mind of "normal, everyday normality" looked upon Poe, as the goofy looking guy who could write like a mofo. Never giving a single thought to what a sincere solitude one might feel, to come up with such ominous overtones. "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary" coming from the complex mind of a man beaten and broken from a life of not understanding what it is to be normal, of conforming. This is a man who set the standard for dark, and dreary, the original goth. Nobody but the gifted understand the complexities of such a tormented mind.
          Salvador Dali,  and Picasso?  Surely nobody ever thought, "there's something about these guys....something not quite right". But little do they know, these men were the outcasts, brought forth to be loved and adored by the masses, -for being able to kind of express what's on their mind- but outcasts nonetheless. The insomniacs, tormented by twisted minds, with no means of release other than their art.
           What they manifested in writing or paint, a release of inability to cope with an overwhelming sense of, "I'M ABOUT TO JUMP OUT OF MY FUCKING SKIN!!!!", known only by those few who have something to say, even though, in a million years, they could never come close to saying what it is that these souls have to say.
           Artists, poets, and writers of special brand, know what I speak of. The love of wtf. The ability to grasp tight a certain art form, and form it. To mold it so that it might fit them a little better, than "normal" means of communication. I have my writing. My poetry if you will. My inspirations have their, "The raven"'s, "Melting clocks" and trippy silent films, "Rum diaries" and Gonzo stylings. Others have their "Starry nights", and others their bedroom arles", and "three musicians".
All works that molded this calamity into what it is. One of those special minds.