The spark you said you saw
(Within me)
Is smothered, smudged and smeared
On your sheets
The sheer shadows are shaded
And I bleed
Bitter black, bleak
Ink
The spark you saw has swam
In their sea
Of sweet, swollen, stolen
Beauty
(Their art is all I hope mine to be)
Brave, Beautiful, Brilliant
Ink
If my spark could be
A raging flame
If my flame could be
Beautiful pain
You’d read my dread
And understand
The sparks (Infernos)
in my head
Sprouting from my hands
When I wrote this poem, I was feeling very inadequate. No matter what talent you have, there seems to always be someone who is better than you at it. Despite the suggestion of writing in the poem, I wrote this with drawing in mind. I always inevitably fall into jealousy whenever I see an artpiece that I prefer over mine. Why can't I draw like that? HOW did they do this? Will I ever draw like this?
Then the wise one within me speaks a little louder:
"Maybe. Maybe not. Who cares? Why do I want to have someone else's style anyway? Why should I envy anyone? Why bitter jealousy, and not admiration? Why inadequacy, and not inspiration? And I KNOW that those same persons have felt inadequate before."
Thanks for reading <3
