time and time again
i feel the fury seeping in
this blind hot rage
swivelling throughout the page
burning me
night after night
I pretend it's alright
submerging myself in falsitute
but the edges still protrude
decaying
always the same old fucking habit
of reaching and flailing but failing to grab it
surrender
everywhere new, I see potential
yet I do not notice the sentinel
until much later when everything is old
and everything is cold
and each familiar face
is drowning in folds
at first, their art is inspirational and true
enticing me to create, anew
but it always fucking frays and fades and melts away
leading my admiration astray
their judgements, their fears, lay before me, bare
yet I have not ever, not even once, dared
to uncover their eyes, to pull them through
for what if that's how they see me, too?
that thought alone I cannot stand
to be at their mercy, to kiss their hand
begging they take back their words
already lost in flight: carnivorous birds
intent on devouring the rotting corpse
that once was a haven for my creative hopes
perched in the treetops, peering through the night
awaiting any movement, ever so slight
waiting
to attack.
but these vultures will be disappointed
by the cadavre they were appointed
there will be no meat left to hide,
it will be rotting from the inside
to their surprise as much as mine,
from the ashes will rise a pine
whose cones will fall, those bristly gems
and it will start all over again
the anticipation.
the inspiration.
exposure.
and deceit.
lying crumpled at my feet.
but i have the power to walk away
to climb the mountain my own way
farewell you folks of forlorn fantasy
i'm off to paint my own soul's tapestry