i don't even want to be my own.
i have the power of acceptance
which lets me know,
i am ment to be alone.
sad and true.
there doesn't always need to be more.
it's truly this simple if you choose to let
yourself drop your designated expectations.
if there's something you want, reach for it
and remember, we have no control in our
world of chaos.
than, at least realize, at least you've tried.
we wont all make it here.
-XAA
1 comments:
Curse of the Artist
Sleepnessness:
eyes wide and staring,
thoughts sweeping through me
like an all-engulfing plague of
Darkness:
Absence of light
though the sun rises,
promising a brighter future
with the dawn of a new day.
But promises forever lay
unfulfilled like the corpses
we let rotting
beneath the earth,
the same earth we wander
searching for gods
and demi-gods
ANYwhere
we think we'll find them.
But all we really have
HERE,
are glimpses and fragments,
every passing moment
becomes a memory,
a story for the future.
I laid my stories to rest
long ago,
leaving me stranded
and branded by desolation,
with only a faded photograph
crinkled into a ball
of a remembered
forgotten dream.
Heart sinking,
head pounding,
still I walk,
convincing my cynical soul
that this tunnel
will eventually lead me
SOMEwhere,
although I have long feared
destination was passed
many moons ago,
with given opportunities
lost to ignorance.
Waiting grows weary
as heart falls deeper,
still asking,
"Why?"
To be so adored
by the many masses
that want and need,
yet to struggle
(in solitude)
as they all meet
their others.
Why this waking nightmare,
each day that I might
dare to dream,
eyes wide open
and burning,
aching to be shut
by the body that
refuses to give way
to their desperate pleas?
Numbness once again
descending,
like a sheath,
around my soul.
Perhaps I fear sleep,
for the promises it brings,
promises
(as of late)
never realized
as they once were.
Perception,
sight,
vision!--
What good are these
tools of the soul
when they fail
to aide you
In a day to day
overwrought with
barrenness and ironies
the heart grows tired
of keeping up with?
Stone cold:
the future that awaits me--
to grow old and bitter,
and in turn,
even more deprived.
It's a vicious cycle,
one that I thought I could stop--
but the chosen
cares not that I was
naked and bleeding,
and am now just
a withered,
shriveled carcass,
walking through life
with my head high,
a smile bright,
but hidden below the belt,
a tail hidden between my legs.
They cry to me:
How much it hurts
to be Them,
They who know
what love is
and what it is
to be loved,
to the one who
knows nothing
of the sensation.
Pity you?
I pity that you
take it all for granted,
as I once did,
I pity that you wallow
in your own shameless
misery,
every time the moon turns,
when I am left
HERE
to talk myself into
sanity,
every day that passes
as salvation continues
to elude me.
But I tell you,
"It will pass,"
and I stand close
to be sure that it does,
knowing that--
for me--
it never will,
but accepting it.
Because if i don't,
then I am no better than
You:
the sheep that had
everything easy
and expected it
to forever be so.
Shudder to imagine
a life filled with pain
and angst
and desolate foregrounds . . .
Oh wait--
that IS my life!
Welcome to my realm.
I fear,
and not for the first time,
that I am incapable of
having it any other way,
lacking in capacity
to ever appreciate
an easy or fulfilling life:
The curse of the artist.
*written when i was 20 or 21. no handsome young artist is ever actually "meant" to be alone, they just so often seem to end up choosing to be. and they all tell themselves they are fine with it. until the time comes again when they can no longer deny they are not fine with it.
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