poetry

55

the art of failing:

im an artist who forgot how to paint.
brush in hand, colors in mind,
but the canvas stays blank, mocking me.
i move, i try, i smear myself across it
but nothing stays.
i forgot what it felt like to make something real.

im a rider who never learned balance.
Feet always slipping off the pedals,
skin grazing asphalt,
and yet i keep climbing back on,
wondering why it hurts
every time i hit the ground.
is it supposed to be this hard?

they say "just keep going,"
but im broken in ways i cant explain.
every step feels like another chance to fail.
every breath, another weight i carry.

ive spent too long pretending i can bear this.
this weight that clings to my bones,
this cold that seeps into my skin,
and im so fucking tired of falling.
of trying to rise,
just to crash again.

do they see it?
how i shatter every time they look away?
do they know how heavy it is to wear this mask?
to hold up the pieces as they crumble?

maybe im not meant to be whole.
maybe im just fragments of what shouldve been,
scattered across a life that never fit.

i want to let go.
Of trying to live up to the sketches they drew of me,
to the outlines they carved into my skin.

because im tired of riding this bike.
tired of falling and bleeding and getting up
just to fall again.

im an artist who forgot how to paint,
and sometimes, i wonder if i ever knew.
maybe i never learned how to feel without breaking.
maybe im just a mess pretending to be something more.

and maybe thats all ill ever be.
just a broken poet,
who forgot the art of words,
the art of rhyme,
the only art ive ever known
is the art of failing.