On creating. (Or frustration. It’s similar at times.)

Pouring your heart out.

Finding your edge,

crossing it,

time and again.

 

 

Your full energy,

attention,

love,

LIFE,

 

 

Poured into your art.

Your creations.

 

 

You do everything to make it your best

and surpass even that,

time and again.

And …

 

 

Crickets.

Fucking crickets.

 

 

Maybe people love it,

but buy it?

No.

 

 

Maybe people like it,

but tell you?

No.

 

 

Maybe people copy it,

but acknowledge you?

No.

 

 

Still, you create.

You pour your heart

your soul

your everything

into all.

 

 

Because you can’t not.

You won’t not.

You don’t know how to live,

be,

breathe without it.

 

 

Because you’re made for it.

 

 

Because you have no say in it.

 

 

Because Life is at the helm and you’re not real.

 

 

Yet real enough

to look at it and …

Fuck.