I am an artist who is broken,
For I am an artist who refuses to be honest.
But what is an artist but someone who is….
Honest.
About all of it.
Someone who looks at you, reveals you,
And everyone they are to you
In horrifyingly glaring truth.
Nauseating we clash
With the dashed illusions 
Of the artist’s audience.
The tears upon the stage haunt 
what is left of the tears I haven’t cried.
They burn…no, clip at the already burned.
When ash is all that’s left,
Or no….sunshine is all that’s left.
A perfect life, categorized into what once was
And what is now, and will never be again.
Not to say fear never comes,
But investment in the now is insurance…
Insurance against pretending.
But the investment is its own pretending.