“They’re killing my art”, I enounced, once more.
I cannot remember how long it has been,
since I’ve taken reason to account me the pleasure of truth.
Too long since I’ve allowed
the eloquence of ambiguity to persuade me
like a drunken, sunken, driven violin
that by its arduous harmony
knows not love
but the expression entangled
between deception and madness.
What a lovely step,
each and every step
of every pronounced pitch; rhyme - never to be heard, once more,
and never again;
should these feelings fade,
should I know any more.
I know not less than written
formalities and informalities,
messages, designs, rules;
they’re teaching me how to think,
how to drool over so-called precious,
unblemished restrictions,
while the only thing I can procure is
“they’re killing my art”.
They are killing me,
with every step;
every step of a pronounced pitch
that only grows louder as I grow older; weaker.
They are attempting to make me a follower,
attempting to rid of all
mesmerizingly morbid sensations
engraved in my sphere - even me, even you.
I could not recall the last moment
I tried to picture your smile,
still now,
I deny myself the ruthless pleasure.
I do remember, it was cold,
I felt a rigid tangent of merciful memories raiding;
all I could bestow of tendered hope,
then I remember dissolution.
“They’re killing my art”,
they dare deny it.
They dare to outstand me
and enforce me to exhibit myself as a self-evoked,
developed work of admiration
only so that they could indulge of a sense of liberty
while they are chained to an unsustainable
glimpse of stability they dare defy as happiness.
Much unlike myself,
much more like you.
It was a fault,
you’ve only ever wanted to be loved, accepted.
The moment in which they took
the blossoming of your efforts
with calid gestures and tinted words,
pitifully glanced upon your seldom eyes
with a misunderstood applause,
you felt at home.
But I could not stand it,
for I am no more than you,
and no less than myself.
I apprehended that while they exalted our blossoms,
they knew not our roots.
They cared not for our feelings,
for the treasures we buried
beneath every step of every word,
in every line.
they only admired what they were taught to,
and diminished what they loved
but soon were taught to forget.
For we are us,
“not them”,
how many times could I have repeated
these words before you stubbornly gave in?
Sometimes I still listen to you,
after all,
you are me, and I am you,
but I chose to evade you
in a sad and solid place,
where I, too, exhibit my sorrows,
and the brief explanations
which one brought me
to become a beautiful being
but are no longer relevant,
driven.
Sometimes I still listen to you,
when I am lost,
and I find not an excuse to better,
fearing I have become like them, while I wonder,
“why not? is it so wrong to belong?
Is it so wrong to **** a part of myself?”
For I have done so with you,
and shall never regret it.
While every time I listen to you,
I am comforted,
blindly submerged, yet alive;
reminded that no matter
how cold and frighting
a lonely path may guide me,
it shall never be as empty
as a world without art,
for that, is me.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
“They’re killing my art”, I enounced, once more.
I cannot remember how long it has been,
since I’ve taken reason to account me the pleasure of truth.
Too long since I’ve allowed
the eloquence of ambiguity to persuade me
like a drunken, sunken, driven violin
that by its arduous harmony
knows not love
but the expression entangled
between deception and madness.
What a lovely step,
each and every step
of every pronounced pitch; rhyme - never to be heard, once more,
and never again;
should these feelings fade,
should I know any more.
I know not less than written
formalities and informalities,
messages, designs, rules;
they’re teaching me how to think,
how to drool over so-called precious,
unblemished restrictions,
while the only thing I can procure is
“they’re killing my art”.
They are killing me,
with every step;
every step of a pronounced pitch
that only grows louder as I grow older; weaker.
They are attempting to make me a follower,
attempting to rid of all
mesmerizingly morbid sensations
engraved in my sphere - even me, even you.
I could not recall the last moment
I tried to picture your smile,
still now,
I deny myself the ruthless pleasure.
I do remember, it was cold,
I felt a rigid tangent of merciful memories raiding;
all I could bestow of tendered hope,
then I remember dissolution.
“They’re killing my art”,
they dare deny it.
They dare to outstand me
and enforce me to exhibit myself as a self-evoked,
developed work of admiration
only so that they could indulge of a sense of liberty
while they are chained to an unsustainable
glimpse of stability they dare defy as happiness.
Much unlike myself,
much more like you.
It was a fault,
you’ve only ever wanted to be loved, accepted.
The moment in which they took
the blossoming of your efforts
with calid gestures and tinted words,
pitifully glanced upon your seldom eyes
with a misunderstood applause,
you felt at home.
But I could not stand it,
for I am no more than you,
and no less than myself.
I apprehended that while they exalted our blossoms,
they knew not our roots.
They cared not for our feelings,
for the treasures we buried
beneath every step of every word,
in every line.
they only admired what they were taught to,
and diminished what they loved
but soon were taught to forget.
For we are us,
“not them”,
how many times could I have repeated
these words before you stubbornly gave in?
Sometimes I still listen to you,
after all,
you are me, and I am you,
but I chose to evade you
in a sad and solid place,
where I, too, exhibit my sorrows,
and the brief explanations
which one brought me
to become a beautiful being
but are no longer relevant,
driven.
Sometimes I still listen to you,
when I am lost,
and I find not an excuse to better,
fearing I have become like them, while I wonder,
“why not? is it so wrong to belong?
Is it so wrong to **** a part of myself?”
For I have done so with you,
and shall never regret it.
While every time I listen to you,
I am comforted,
blindly submerged, yet alive;
reminded that no matter
how cold and frighting
a lonely path may guide me,
it shall never be as empty
as a world without art,
for that, is me.