My best work has yet to be written
And perhaps never will be.
Everyday, my art gets corrupted
by the mediocrity of my own mind and thoughts.
I will be the death of me,
such as Icarus was of himself.
My magnum opus forever imprisoned
in the back chambers of my soul
where that prima materia of mine lays
untouched.
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.