To create with honesty
Is to leave oneself vulnerable;
But I would rather suffer
The harshness of criticism
Than become the creator
Of works insincere.
Once again, the icy blade of rejection
Has been driven deep
Into my willingly-exposed heart -
And like a desperate, suffering creature,
I search for answers
I begin to question
Why I care so much
About the contents of their poison words,
And I wonder how
Their sting can be so very bitter,
When I believe in myself with such unyielding conviction.
Bewildered and crushed,
I question the motives
Of compassionless critics;
Those who seem so quickly to forget
That there sits a living, breathing, feeling person
Behind the avatar I portray.
As I've done a thousand times,
I ask myself
Why these creatures cannot know,
As I have long known,
That things need not be perfect
In order to be beautiful.
Broken hearts can be repaired;
Their jagged fragments
With precision over time.
My faith in humanity;
Though, from time to time, it may justly wane;
Can return again in an instant -
When inspiration reignites belief;
Just as my confidence, though often fleeting,
Never truly fades.
Yet, I will never again
Be exactly as I was before.
Words from cruel and over-active tongues
Like grey eroded rivers stones,
We are ever-shaped by society's running waters.
Gazing at the glistening shards on the floor,
My room dimly-lit by steadfast hope,
I carefully retrieve the broken pieces of my shattered soul,
As I try once more
Not to let the ills of this world
Change me into someone I don't like.