Rip open my heart and show the world the most tender parts of myself.
A tale of a lost love, personal failures, or the echoes of a war.
Dive into the details of which has left a mark upon me.
I’ll give you my insightful, whimsically fresh perspective.
I’m a real artist.

Get chicks to be impressed by my secret layers and soft side.
Get the bro’s to totally relate and get hit in the feels.
Get that glimmering sense of self-worth by the barrage of likes.
Social media acceptance and approval. I am on top of the world.
I feel like a real artist.

Face the blank page again.
Trying to tap into something raw inside. Bitches dig when I write something raw.
Moving those fingers, vomit words and hope they stick together.
Fucking garbage. *Delete. Delete. Delete.*
I ain’t no artist.

Time heals a lot of wounds. Scars no longer visible.
What once rocked me to my very core, is but a memory of a tremor.
The nightmares are no longer as frequent.
Tranquil acceptance fills me when I look at those pictures.
Maybe these are just excuses. As I find the courage to tap into something raw.
In order to prove that I’m still an artist.

~Raul Felix

Read: For This One Day, She Made Me Forget
Read: Heartbreak
Read: The She Serpent Wrapped Herself Around The Young Man

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