Dear Reality,

 

We create a world, a world of equality but are warned society will break it down into insanity.

 

We wrap the universe in a bow and tear our own hearts out for the world to devour.

 

Only you will never be satisfied, hunger ever growing.

 

What do you want from an artist?

 

What expectations do you hold?

 

You want us to put beauty on a page

 

 

Take the secrets of life and splatter it on a canvas

 

Give you a feeling of worth

 

Of love

 

To stop time itself..

 

Do you want us to jump in front of cars?

 

Cut our own ears off?

 

Type until we are blind?

 

Write stories and poems, leave our sanity behind?

 

Want us to struggle, lose our culture, and become slaves just to twist it into a sympathetic song for you to hear?

 

We have to suffer, experience, question even our own being to entertain the masses.

 

To try and reach you

 

To try and teach you

 

To teach you how to see

 

Suffer and sacrifice our children, our reputations, our soul and sew it into our art.

 

Hoping it will reach you.

 

Hoping you will understand.

 

Wishing you could read our minds, see what we see, feel what we feel, and know what we know.

 

A word can mean a thousand things.

 

Poetry is a difficult language.

 

What cost do we have to fulfill for you to understand.

 

We suffer, we starve, and we deal with demons, never ending wars.

 

War in our heads, War in our minds.

 

Multiple personalities, multiple decisions.

 

Give and give.

 

We give and give until there is nothing left but our art.

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We pour our heart, our soul into our art and nothing but a shell is left.

 

We wither and die and only then do you ever give us recognition.

 

Only when we are gone do you try to understand.

 

You think us crazy, you think us weird, we spin reality into fantasy and we are accused as sinners.

 

Well we curse all the killers of Dreams, curse the judgmental, curse Heartbreakers, idea stealers.

 

We curse everything there ever was.

 

All we do is give and give.

 

You take and take.

 

We try to be Prophets, philosophers, thinkers.

 

But for you "Heaven forbid we are ever taken seriously."

 

 

Our tears are artificial to you.

 

We are manipulators.

 

We are devils in disguise.

 

We have Rose Colored Glasses permanently attached to our eyes and you want us to tear ourselves apart for you to obtain them.

 

We are aliens, witches, sinners, demons.

 

The ones looked down upon until we are in the grave.

 

Until you feel bad for doubting us.

 

We are suffering, not a penny to our lives only to our deaths.

 

The boatman is richer then us across the River Styx.

 

We only want to reach you.

 

We only want you to understand.

 

We only want you to hear us.

 

We,

 

The Suffering Artists