𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

xix

there is nothing more heartbreaking and sincere than a poet critiquing his own work. such drive for perfection, subdued frustration at mere words on a page that soon becomes overwhelming. a true master's work is his worst enemy and his greatest love, simultaneously. he crafts his thoughts and his sorrows into something beautiful, expels what little effort he has into his art. and, inevitably, he hates it in the end. these sentences seem too insignificant and worthless compared to the time and strain of thought he has put into his work. he finds himself pitting his work to the likes of great artists, the ones who go down in history for their flare and effortless admiration, and there truly isn't a need for this comparison, because they will win each time. he finds that these hours wasted could have been spent better, and his love transforms into hate.
at some point, his greatest passion becomes something of a chore. it no longer flows effortlessly from the space between his mouth and his mind, but becomes something that has to be conjured up from moments of deep concentration in spaced out periods of time.