Do not feel special because
I felt you so deeply —
I’m an artist
This morning, I wept for
a fallen tree, I had fallen for
over these summer months
Now it lays stretched, dead
over the creek bed, highest branches
brushing forest floor
ground eroded out from underneath
the roots
The artist’s curse is attachment
masked as lust, even love
but the object isn’t special just because
it’s the perception, the artist’s deception
that gives rise to conception
We may have loved this thing before
and here we are losing it, once more
Don’t be fooled
To be felt deeply
is no honour, because
an artist is a slut for feeling
And now you’re just a bore
The Halfwit Writer 