An artist sits before canvas. His eyes appear full. Full of dreams. But something malice threatens to take place of these dreams.
The canvas is wet. Wet with paint and dreams. It is not really what it seem. In his mind he writes a letter. A letter to the future, his future self.
"Dear beloved,
This distance between us hurts. It hurts that it is not time difference but time that makes the difference. It hurts with a pain that hurts. Truth is the pain hurts so much I doubt I can do this anymore. Which parts hurt more?
It hurts when other people get to act. When they fabricate to make way and it pays. It hurts when the fake get the cake with the icing. When only the rotten parts seem to be rising. Hurts when meek is seen weak. When those who seek peak get sick. Passion and potential left to sink.
It hurts how my friends are few. I should not have mentioned you. But I did. I was not sure about it yet I did. I let it out and now am left out. "I think the pain got to your brain", some spoke. But not to my grind, I hoped.
I hate when pain hurts too much it makes me hate fate. I know I will be great. My dreams are not fake for heavens sake.
And so I ask my friends for words, at least those who did not forsake. They told me to pray. Told me it would all go away. 'No pain no gain' was also said. I just had to wait.
My beloved, this is not a letter but a prayer. Yet I hope you reply. And when you reply, if you do reply, please make me a promise. Promise this. That there will be gain. That the stars see my pain and my scars are not in vain.
Yours hurt, broken but hopeful,
- the past
P.S. I always think of when we touch, when it hurts too much."
YOU ARE READING
Bad Love
PoetryThis story proclaims a singer. Michael is his name. Michael is my name. Keep up, this is a game. The guitar was his fame. He was a sickly lover. Flowers in his lungs grew, butterflies were the flu.
