My Very Own Opera

I am an artist,

Selfish and unrealistic, a life of solitude I freely choose
Fueled by a perpetual need to find that perfect muse.

The poem to end all poems,
The painting to defy even Picasso's high standards;

I stumble into misery to pick apart a soul;
Dragging them threw hell and back, enclosed in brimstone,
A bleeding heart to clog. To build up hope
Only to relish the moment they choke;

[7, 8, 9]
To find the perfect tragedy takes tolerance, to much time
To create one from a budding love; add hate, add rhyme
Theatrical music to mark each prose,

Smile pretty now puppets- from opening scene to the close
There the disastrous flaw, her love, his lust, the rose.

Now tell me in the perfect opera, in the musical Lloyd couldn't write,
How many tears would if fuc king take just to let me win one fight?
How many sonnets, how many scores,
In the end would you love me as the violin sores?

As the notes of a enraged organist crash down upon our heads,
And Don Juan makes himself comfy in our redundant wedding bed.

I wrote to the end without use of a pen,
The ink always stained my fingers.
I wrote to the end with bitterness and then
Even signed you off, let you linger.

Now, suddenly there's nothing left to write;
Only this ring. Only a we. The light hits your eyes¦

Absent is the painted on frown
I could almost think love you now.