What if you woke up one day and realized you were mediocre.
Some half-baked version of the greatness you aspire to be.
Some worthless wannabe who walks upon airs, raised stilts in an empty theatre. Only you shouting with heightened diction.
Just another poor artist. Just another pretentious poet.
Just some loner who was never given enough attention, and now basks in the artistic glory of being “different.” But what you really mean is “better.”
Better because of what? You’re syntactical superiority? Your imperial intelligence?
You carry such ambition in that well-worn basket. Where are the others? I don’t know.
Should I care?
Look at you. You’re lazy. Pathetic. You’re ryhmes are nonsensical, you’re meter doesn’t match. Jesus, the comma splices. The run-on sentences that drag on for an eternity, draining the reader of that once-natural love of literature, as you sit back, pleased, at this “masterful” creation, or whatever you call it.
Fragments. abused Capitalization for only the purpose of so-called importance. Justification because you’re a writer or a painter or a poet or singer or the generic term of “artist.”
The ever-insinuating remarks that i am an artist and therefore i am better than you.
But really. Really. You were just fooling yourself. Really, you’re yet another desperate person risking absurdity, putting everything on the line to stamp their name into history.
Really, you’re just like everyone else. You’re normal. Common. Average.Typical. Plain. Bland. Mediocre.
And there’s nothing worse than spending your entire life believing you are destined for greatness, only to realize that everyone else thinks so too. Making you just like them. A copy. A sham.