Don't tell me

what you think - of my words, of my sins.

You have no claim

on what I am/I've become.

You never listen/ed

to my rhymes, my song inside.

You only hear yourself,

the lies, the distortions of your soul.

Maybe, or maybe not,

we're bound to be close (as close as two people standing next to each other).

Maybe, or maybe not,

you tried being there for me (and I let you for a time).

Maybe, or maybe not,

we've resurrected this friendship (a relationship, call it what you want).

But maybe, or maybe not,

I've stopped wanting that with you.

My words

are mine.

My voice

is tired.

My self

is leaving you behind.

You never appreciated

a text above the fame of its author.

How can you appreciate mine?

and at the base of that life

- the life that's been lived and relived -

is the fear of spending too much of it

in too short an amount of time.

don't try fooling me,

you want to live longer, stay young,

have more.

there is just never enough.

the result is greediness,

is neediness

for substance that may not be available,

not to us anyway.

so, should i tell you

to live each day intense-tionally?

love more, live harder, be better?

to enjoy (whatever there is to enjoy)?

or is this something you've heard too often

to believe in?

can't be that easy!

shouldn't be this hard!

There's a voice. A tiny, melancholy voice.

It's been hit and ignored. It's been pushed aside,

for matters more important.

I'm part of that voice. That tiny, melancholy voice.

And I'm screaming

to be heard.

Do you hear? Do you care? Are we important enough?

Is the love we share

just a suggestive piece of your world?

Your world? Our world. My world.

I loved. And it was majestic.

I lost. And I heard you laughing

in the background.

What was more important this time?

Your ego, your art, your will

to... rip us apart. Your success, her end.