The love of art
Is an unrequited love
It is forever unsatisfied
As I am soiled with
attempts
To mimic creation
With the rib - my pen -
Forging life in the form
of words
Toiling endlessly between
Deafening pauses of
incomplete verses.
Trapped in my head
Begging to be exorcised
As paper taunts me
Amassing my many failures
Against me
Secretly hiding away
thoughts unwritten.
Pen snaps against papers
back
As my jeered frustration
Resigns my inspiration.
Seconds to minutes
Minutes to hours
And so on
And so forth
Yet the torture continues
Atrophy settles
Between the ridges of my
palms
With erupting calluses
Thick and hard
The seamless flow
In my prose
Has deteriorated
Aged with every letter
spent
Every emotion scribed
As I am forced to live
Vicariously through the
muse of others
Yet these words do not
appease me
Because these lines are
not mine
And I have become
The one forever
unsatisfied
For stifling my art
For killing my creativity.
The love of art
Is an unrequited love
But it will forever be my
true love.
Olsfred James 2016©
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