She ignited my pen
It wasn’t just a normal pen any more
It was a fire breathing
Now all I can write about
is her flame
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.
Are you longing to be a source of my pain?
Just so your ego can revel in the joy of knowing you were able to extract from me syllables to fashion some prose.
To meter some emotion.
To prattle some words.
I can change my medium like a snake sheds it’s skin.
Akin, to your liking.
So you can hear the words you long to hear,
Just audio on ear.
Be wary, as you’re lost in the marvel of the fashioned words,
That I harbour a hatred towards you.
Whilst you bathe in the romanticism of you,
I drown in the confusion of suicide contemplating this grotesque thing you made me do.
Forcing me to write.
I don’t know how to write letters of begging and wont save you as you struggle with your thoughts and haven’t the skill to put ink to paper.
No, you’ll probably inject ink to skin.
A faded tattoo of my name on your aged skin, your children will ask you about,
That you will cry incessantly every time about and teach your children the idea of contentment from.
You’ll teach them not to scatter bed sheets if you don’t intend to sleep.
You’ll teach them not to rattle the hive if you don’t want to be stung
You’ll teach them not to kick the loyal dog if you don’t want teeth gnawing at your soul for the rest of your life.