(no subject)
Dear you,
You call yourself an artist. You spend 37 hours a week folding your life away. Hot dog style. Around 56 hours in a coma. And 75 in a trance. You call yourself an artist, but you hardly pick up a pen. When you do, it's to circle negative quantities or cross out some insignificant number indicating the amount of that particular item that is left to sell.
You convince yourself that you're healthy. Even with the gravity under your eyes swerving your car into the other lane. Gravity has a colour. It's blue-ish. But not like the sky. Like a marker smudge-stained on a shirt where feebly attempted swipes blotch it thicker. The kind you find as you're checking slips from a box transfer from CLO to LV3. Hi-liter in hand, the fabric in the other. The shade of blue keeps you company.
You call yourself an artist because you go to school for art. Honey, that doesn't make you an artist. That makes you a student. This illustration ordeal is becoming a dream out of your reach. You tell yourself this is temporary but you don't know how long it will last. It makes you worry. It makes you cry. I know, I know.
You wish sometimes someone would be there to hold your hand, tell you it's going to be fine and walk you through it. Or just to spend sometime with you. That's a little secret though. Your dying necessity for the company of others. You want to tell the world how you feel. You love the attention. The romantic in you is too shy to say anything to your pride-prince. He already knows, but he thinks he's above that. "I am the wolf." he says while he'll mow your wants into weakness. And he'll drown your affection in a kitchen sink.
I'm here to let you know your dreams aren't out of reach.
And to fucking submit to the Vagus Nerve This year.
I'm here to charm your pride-prince into love.
Love,
me
P.s. remember me.
You call yourself an artist. You spend 37 hours a week folding your life away. Hot dog style. Around 56 hours in a coma. And 75 in a trance. You call yourself an artist, but you hardly pick up a pen. When you do, it's to circle negative quantities or cross out some insignificant number indicating the amount of that particular item that is left to sell.
You convince yourself that you're healthy. Even with the gravity under your eyes swerving your car into the other lane. Gravity has a colour. It's blue-ish. But not like the sky. Like a marker smudge-stained on a shirt where feebly attempted swipes blotch it thicker. The kind you find as you're checking slips from a box transfer from CLO to LV3. Hi-liter in hand, the fabric in the other. The shade of blue keeps you company.
You call yourself an artist because you go to school for art. Honey, that doesn't make you an artist. That makes you a student. This illustration ordeal is becoming a dream out of your reach. You tell yourself this is temporary but you don't know how long it will last. It makes you worry. It makes you cry. I know, I know.
You wish sometimes someone would be there to hold your hand, tell you it's going to be fine and walk you through it. Or just to spend sometime with you. That's a little secret though. Your dying necessity for the company of others. You want to tell the world how you feel. You love the attention. The romantic in you is too shy to say anything to your pride-prince. He already knows, but he thinks he's above that. "I am the wolf." he says while he'll mow your wants into weakness. And he'll drown your affection in a kitchen sink.
I'm here to let you know your dreams aren't out of reach.
And to fucking submit to the Vagus Nerve This year.
I'm here to charm your pride-prince into love.
Love,
me
P.s. remember me.