vrijdag 13 december 2013

sonnet of the expected 1

There's nothing more willing and suffering from ego than the bad artist.
He or she has nothing to tell and suffers miles before from doing so.
A pitty is. Hell alongside they go through the worst of fires, pitty themselves
as that one and only expectation doesn't seem to be the gold they unfortunately expected.
Great expectations to suffer. Nothing else to do but to sit and sit and work,
gently clothed with words of pleasant and esteemed respectfulness.
Oh oh oh. Oh oh. Oh oh oh. How bad it came to be unrespected for the work I did.
Oh oh, how bad to dwell through endless dreams. Rats feast with the body dreamt.
Oh oh oh. Oh oh. Oh oh oh. I need to go now. Shame, shame. I really have to.
Bestowed on me one more goddess fell asleep on earth. In my work something reliable
she must have felt. I now suffer the many miles to go to reach the unexpected.
Sunlit hemisphere makes abstraction of my work. To a distant whole I walk,
suffering the bad and willing to suffer it. Oh oh. If I could make it but for a single second.
A half a mile and there I stumble. Oh oh. How pleasant it feels to be the unexpected.

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