In the rush of finishing that piece when every stroke felt like a victory carved from exhaustion, doubt creeps in like cold fog through cracks in the walls I've built around my fragile hopes,
In the rush of finishing that piece when every stroke felt like a victory carved from exhaustion,
I cling to the potential before it fades into the harsh light of morning's unforgiving gaze,
In the rush of finishing that piece when every stroke felt like a victory carved from exhaustion, am I tricking myself into loving this when deep down the flaws already whisper their arrival,
In the rush of finishing that piece when every stroke felt like a victory carved from exhaustion, the shine dulls and leaves me hollowed out with the weight of what I poured in now slipping away...
Yesterday’s momentum has dissolved into stillness after hours of pouring soul into shapes that promised more, the high crashes into seeing every flaw stare back from the page I thought I'd already conquered,
Yesterday’s momentum has dissolved into stillness after hours of pouring soul into shapes that promised more, I fight the urge to hide it away forever in some forgotten drawer where no eyes can wound me further,
Yesterday’s momentum has dissolved into stillness after hours of pouring soul into shapes that promised more, and I am asking myself why the distance always arrives before the understanding does and can no longer fully recognize in the having,
Yesterday’s momentum has dissolved into stillness after hours of pouring soul into shapes that promised more, pride stings sharp as the gap widens between the dream I chased and the reality that mocks it now...
That first proud glance back hits like a quiet thief slipping through the shadows of my desk, a quiet thief slipping through the shadows of my studio after dark, stealing the warmth I poured into every stroke with hands that trembled from the effort of creation,
That first proud glance back hits like a quiet thief slipping through the shadows of my desk, and I sit with the uncomfortable truth that the hands that made it and the eyes that judge it have never once been the same pair, and never will be,
That first proud glance back hits like a quiet thief slipping through the shadows of my desk, does this ache mean I'm blind to my own limits when the work stares back with such honest flaws,
That first proud glance back hits like a quiet thief slipping through the shadows of my desk, now the work sits exposed and heavier than before carrying the burden of my unmet expectations...
The spark in my head never lands quite the same no matter how fiercely I chase it, execution drags it down into clumsy shape that betrays the vivid life it held in my imaginary mind,
The spark in my head never lands quite the same no matter how fiercely I chase it, I wrestle the loss but it twists deeper still pulling at the threads of confidence I can barely hold,
The spark in my head never lands quite the same no matter how fiercely I chase it, how many versions of myself I have spent trying to close the gap between what I imagined and what I was actually able to build on any given day,
The spark in my head never lands quite the same no matter how fiercely I chase it, but I know every bruise is a blueprint and the gap between what I imagined is not the measure of my limitation, it is the exact size of what I am still becoming....
Rush of finishing that piece late
Yesterday's fire now feels like ash
First proud glance back hits
Spark in my head never lands
Gap widens between dream reality
