Pain

It remains my belief

that true love never dies.

This thought

that once brought comfort

now carries only pain.

It means I'll never be rid of you

or truly whole again.

Those who can't do, teach

The adage that "those who can't do, teach" is hurtful and, in my case anyway, true.

At the risk of sounding immodest, I have impeccable taste.

I have almost a supernatural ability to spot real, raw talent in writing, acting, and film.

I can peg an up-and-coming actor or DP years before Hollywood gives him/her a project in which to shine.

I can demolish a bad script - tell you what to do to make it better - provide story and character analysis that's second to none.

And yet, when I go to put my own pen to paper, I come up woefully short.

The writing falls flat. The emotion, saccharin.

When I take the stage, my performance, though internally layered as an onion, doesn't translate to my limbs or face.

What I can see and teach so well to others I cannot seem to grasp for myself.

I can mold external clay, but internally I'm the artistic equivalent of a toddler's crayon drawing.

Colorful mess.

Untitled

To think

You think

You traded up

To know

that I

agree

Sombering

to know

You know

the inconsequence

of me.