There’s no rhyme, rhythm or reason
in the words that I write.
I don’t mean to offend
your fragile tastes,
nor do I mean to worry you
with my sudden disappearance.

An echo amongst the rain.

There are some amongst you
who read, and think, and decide
that the manner is off-
that it was better in the beginning-
that it is best if I change.

One of you spoke it clearly,
not out of malice for my work
but out of “constructive criticism”.

I snapped.
You won’t apologize,
but neither will I.

They say that over time,
the artist’s techniques will shift.
(this feels dead to me)

The way that they sketch out these
simple lines and shapes becomes different,
and it is then that their art is unique.
(oh no, i’ve gone and written the same again)
I only want to be unique.

It’s such a fucking shame, isn’t it?

I tried to create something for myself-
I tried to grow in both my style and my self-
and when another person disagreed with me
I screamed and cried like a child,
battering my tiny fists against the mirror
that reflects only my soul
(don’t help me, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me)
in some sort of misconstrued attempt
to both justify myself and become as I was before.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.


And here I am, struggling against myself
to try and please everybody again.
I won’t even try to bleed myself out
to give you this message.

I won’t even try to pretty this up
because this is how I used to be.
There is nothing pretty in the truth.

There is, however, a saying amongst the stars.

If you can’t take the criticism,
step off the stage.

It isn’t where you belong.