art is a lady

and she comes when she pleases.

she loves the fact that she lingers in the back of my mind.

sometimes she leaves earlier than expected, when I’m about to climax with an explosion of ideas, she strokes my head with her teases.

at all times, her fingers scratch the inside of my eyeballs. they say love is blind, at this rate i’m bound to fall in love once again.

but i never grow too comfortable with her presence, for she is never satisfied with my work.

so, as to impress her and feel euphoria with no end, i write in the pursuit of her.

i am not one to chase, leave me as you please. i’m used to it.

but with her, i always go searching for my first love.

tirelessly bound to her essence.

she knows when i’m on the verge of killing myself, she laughs at me because she knows she is the only one who comes to my aid.

i need her. i can’t exist without her.

but she has me static in the endless masquerade of seasonal depression celebrated by a poetic parade.

because she knows the show will be grand every single time.

she knows that i pour my soul into every single line.

she knows that the audiences will marvel at the art that is mine.

she knows that with me, a spotlight upon us will always shine.

because poetry,

we were meant to be.

and if art were a lady,

she’d flourish in my melancholy.

nonetheless,

i am a jester in the flesh

aiming to one day satisfy the lady in the pastel dress.

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