Through the windows of your offices
junipers lay soft with lazy snow.
And in your apartment, paintbrushes
grew hardened in their disuse long ago
the colours rusted closed.
Make art. Focus and create art.
You work just to display art
that's completely beneath you.
Stationed amidst your obligations.
I'm dying for the day when you admit you need it, too.
Some instruments flawed in small ways,
broken strings or cracks from constant moves.
They get buried in your storage space.
Though easily repaired, that's your excuse
that they never get used.
Make art. Focus and create art.
You work just to display art
that's completely beneath you.
Stationed amidst your obligations.
I'm dying for the day when you admit you need it.
Absolutes that charmed you in your youth
appeared harmful as you grew.
And though they've been abused,
these fundamental truths still require things from you.