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Dilemma
I think of myself alone as I age.
My friends will marry and I will
tarry in the same self righteous ways
...you know, suffering for the art
because without suffering
there’s no good art, and if there’s
no good art, everything is
silent and gray and hardly
worth mentioning.
but I’m a fucking martyr
sacrificing my life for the
words you like to read when
you’re having a bad day and
need to be reminded that
your life is not as bad as this.
Because the rules were written
that you have to be dying
for the art to come alive;
otherwise, why else would
I keep myself in limbo,
hiding from the very things
I so desperately tell myself
I can’t have or deserve?
