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 ******* 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 ******* 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