An artist cries the most tears,
For art is a painful thing.
I wither my fingers to bones,
Perfecting every line of poetry.
I want it all to be perfect,
So much it starts reflecting onto my life,
The way I walk, the way I talk, the way I care too much.
Yet I am not perfect,
I'm afraid I never will be,
All this trying,
Is killing me.
May 4, 2025
May 4, 2025 at 8:36 PM UTC
An artist cries the most tears,
For art is a painful thing.
I wither my fingers to bones,
Perfecting every line of poetry.
I want it all to be perfect,
So much it starts reflecting onto my life,
The way I walk, the way I talk, the way I care too much.
Yet I am not perfect,
I'm afraid I never will be,
All this trying,
Is killing me.
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