So, I missed you, misused the tales that other dudes passed on.
I stole the swollen heart of the dark art’s love, in observing and serving up other peoples stuff,
little notes about their lives, things that I did not experience or survive, but I still write about those desperate nights bringing their realities to light.
I plagiarized, with a chameleon’s guise, took their truths, rationalized, and fictionalized with little details and larger lies.
But isn’t that how strangers empathize? Isn’t this how creatives thrive?