art isn't a thing
it is a fractured composure
misunderstood by defiants
yet rises to better expectations of reliance

art is praised
through the melodies of random kindness
through the pictures of story-telling
through the written speech of your imagination

art is a soul
that is purely intoxicated
pre-judged with mere perfection
consoling the lightworker in you

art is you
bestowed to eradicate mediocrity
created to being inanimacy to life
distinguished for an exciting simplicity.

You don't look through me like most, you look deep inside, pick up every flaw and regret and make a toast to the wonders that make me, me.

Why don't you stay
Why don't you say you'll look after me
I'll help you deal with what's wrong
We'll make it better before long
Because I'm not going anywhere
While you don't feel right
I can't just go to bed and sleep tight, and
I'm not going to have an easy, restful night
While there's something bothering you slightly

I don't know what
It is but it's not something I can ignore forever
It's not just a pointless endeavour
Of my emotions, on a journey
I want you to long for me; yearn for me
I want you to need to make me feel right
I want you to help me before saying goodbye

But then again,
I gave nothing to you
But a blank, cold stare
Wished you sweet dreams
With the glare of a nightmare
I care and I want to share
But it's not fair because
For too long I've been unhappy
On one side of my face

Schizophrenic,
Unauthentically authentic
I think that I meant it
and I doused it in wit
But what use is intelligence
When it uses idiotic reasoning
What use is a feeling
When it can't even identify itself easily
Cheesily,
hazily,
amazingly poetic