Though Your Dreams Be Tossed And Blown

There’s something romanticized about agony in Art

And I am too dumb to disagree

I fall victim to the beauty in tragedy ideal

It is something I erroneously hope for

I already have a damn good start

I don’t know if my life seems easier because it is, or because I don’t pontificate my sorrows.

Not personally, at least.

In abstract happenstances I divulge my soul to a point past insanity.

But I don’t seem bereft enough to make good art.

Silly, isn’t it.

Abusive relationships don’t seem like bad from the outside.

I think that’s what it’s like.

Those who long for pity and sympathy sell their souls.

Those who suffer oft grin and bare it.

If they did let the secret out, it’d be doubtful that people would believe.

But you seem so happy, they seem so sweet…

I guess I’m doomed to be doubted.

It seems art and happiness are often mutually exclusive.

Though I adore those who I have met.

Those who seem to struggle as much as I.

People who seek out happiness in what they create.

I feel we who succeed in this love more than others.

We know what it is like, so we give it our all.

It is my consolation.

When things go horrendously wrong, in my personal life, I flee it easily.

I run to the arms of creation, which instantaneously embrace me.

I see glory in blood-shot eyes, sad endings and baring my all to a single person.

I will do it again I’m sure.

At least I have that, as little as it may seem.

I will not sell you my soul.

I will give it to you freely.

I know what it is like when it’s abused.

So you holding it in your heart no longer scares me.

It’s those I’m closest to who I’m afraid of.