They don't tell you about the nights when you'll cry; when you'll curse and rave and throw wadded up tissues at the monitor. They don't tell you about the number of times you'll want to throw your pencil or brush or tablet pen in the garbage disposal and flip the switch.
They don't tell you about the time spent painting insane detail onto tiny things that no one will ever see, ever appreciate, ever understand except to say "nice" or "pretty" or "wow"--none of which ever come close to how you felt when you painted it. How you felt when you stepped back and stared and were awed for a moment that you had pulled something like *that* out of your brain and your hands and your skill. They dont tell you how it will feel, for that one moment, to glow like a god, having just created a world.
They don't tell you how it's going to feel when that isn't enough. They don't tell you that sometimes it will never be enough--there will always be someone whose
i was knocking at your door. it was
freezing cold, and the ice-rain got inside
my heart, and i was screaming please,
please, let me in. and i was knocking
at your door until my voice was
gone and my knuckles were bleeding
and you never even heard me.
apparently you are a different person now. apparently you have new friends to laugh with; joke with; cry with; tell secrets to.
apparently i'm not one of those friends anymore, and this breaks my heart - not that i'd ever tell you this. apparently we are no longer major parts of each other's life anymore, although we promised each other we'd never drift apart.
i wonder if the continents told themselves that, too.
i put a stethoscope over your heart
and all i heard was static and the sounds
if you can't even be honest with me, who can you be honest with?
maybe no one. maybe i'm a liar, just like you say. maybe i'm no good and maybe i'm screwed and maybe this is fate; maybe it is my destiny to