true artistry goes unnoticed while more palatable characters profit, capitalize, and peck away at the very fabric of an artist’s soul, their work, their blood, traumas, joy, and love, like termites feasting on flesh. they tear raw emotionality apart limb by limb, skin it, and hang it up to dry a brand new, refurbished, clean, inoffensive monolith. the monolith is the absence of humanity; it is the mockery of it. it goes without the grotesque and the hunger. the monolith does not need sustenance, for the mere existence of consciousness creates all it needs to survive, for consciousness allows us to feel. the monolith has never been grotesque, for the chipped fingernails and torn muscles of starving artists have always washed its cold, silky form with tears of laughter and mourning. the monolith is completely detached from our human reality, yet artists are still held to the expectation of becoming one with it.
2/18/26 - my dreams (scrap poem)
inconsolable, uncontrollable, rabid
I’ll let you engulf me whole
the animal you are has never known care
release your pent up energy, unroll
your ribbons burst everywhere
pure ecstasy
you’re wide open now; milky, sweaty
pouring from your skin
I’ve always been fascinated by your putrid nature
I’ll lick your body clean and take you in
I’ll traverse your mind
I’ll resolve this mangled mess, what they neglected then
man cries somewhere from your void
woman whispers “follow me to my garden;
lay on my breast,
I want you to rest.
I’ll always stay if you do the same
because I don’t care about keeping you tame.”
you treat me tenderly now; washed of rage, plain baby blue
you’ll let me nurture you
what i'm reading ♥