What do you find at the end of it all,
at cutting out bits,
Alot of loneliness,
inside an outer display of comical amicability.
until the newer version of you,
drags the older down,
to stand on his shoulders for a breath.
Fucken savages we are.
The hardest thing is to feed someone your entirety only for them to spit it back in your face.
Ingratitude laced with retaliatory and impulsive slurs, that are mined from a deep cesspool of hatred.
Because you rose above them, you bettered them. You shone a little brighter, you loved a little harder, you thought a little deeper, you lived a little happier, you became a little smarter, you prayed a little more sincerely and it all only has to be a little, it’s enough for envy to gnaw at their very being.
What a cancerous way to live.
Self destructing, self eating.
I pray for you, from a distance.
I cannot digest your intimacy any more.
If you cannot suffer the pain,
You have no business falling in love with an artist.
Through song, writing, paint or any medium,
The pain inflicted is of two types:
If they love you,
It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally
If they hate you,
You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.