How do you write?
You scarcely know—
A tide of self,
A shallow flow.

Humility’s mask,
Yet smugness blooms.
Words claiming depth
But filling rooms—

With echoes of "me,"
And truths self-proclaimed,
While privilege sings
Unrecognized, untamed.

"Stay out of trouble,"
The simplest creed,
From hands unsoiled,
Unaware of need.

To hold the heart,
To "worship" deep,
Yet gaze from towers
Where suffering sleeps.

You name life’s woes,
Its "beauty and pain,"
Yet ache for applause,
Not the broken chain.

Truths wrapped in ribbons,
So neatly spun.
Words dance for mirrors,
Blind to the sun.

A masterpiece, you say,
Not life—but "you"?
Oh, human spirit,
What hubris ensues!

For art is not
A throne to ascend;
It breathes for others,
Not self to defend.

The day is yours,
But whose lives are waste?
Speak not for all—
Your truth is misplaced.

In Shakespeare’s shadow,
Your pen takes flight,
But art is no pedestal;
It is the fight.

So, hold your words,
And hold them true:
Not just for self,
But for all who view.

Let privilege fade,
Let self be small—
And only then,
Your art stands tall.