ARTIST Poem: Pain Creates Art, by Arsema Belay

Pain isn’t gentle it carves with a blade,
rips through the quiet like thunder delayed.
It stains the floor where the dream once stood,
turns gold into rust, turns joy into wood.

But from splinters, the sculpture begins to rise,
born not of peace, but of sleepless skies.
The canvas cracks, but it still takes form,
a masterpiece molded from every storm.

Brushes dipped in nights that bled,
lines that shake with words unsaid.
Each verse, a bruise dressed up in rhyme,
each chorus, a wound still counting time.

What broke became a beat, a stroke,
an echo pulled from when silence spoke.
No hand creates without the quake,
no art is born without the break.

Clay remembers every press,
marble holds the heaviness.
Colors scream before they shine.
pain is the ink inside the line.

Not every fire is meant to burn,
some were lit so light could learn.
Creation crawls from aching dust,
not from love, but from broken trust.

See how the sorrow shapes the sound,
how beauties built from battleground.
The melody moans, the palette weeps,
truth only grows where memory sleeps.

No name, no face, no single scar,
just thunder sculpted into art.
And when the weeping finally ceased,
the wreckage hummed a kind of peace.

So let the page remember pain,
let brushstrokes mimic acid rain.
From chaos came this final part,
what hurt the most still made the art.