The bearer of the heart, cascading it's reek.
No one to listen to their weeps.
Forever ignored, never to be praised.
Their efforts all be gone to a waste.
Weeping they sit, by their own to savour.
Their tears creating an art piece for no one to remember.
Only glances is all they get,
Words of tribute never to be said.
Forging a novelty for everyone to admire.
Simply to be left for themselves to treasure.
But is it really their pitch? Or is it their being too?
A question they ask, nothing to follow through.
For what did they do to make everyone turn their heads?
Will it stay like this until their despair spreads?
Aspiring artist they say, never to be doubted.
But it all rots away, a new feeling of resentment to be sprouted.
