There’s a question bugging me, my Darling,
That today I pose to you.
Why do we have a specific target,
When we do stuff that we do?
There’s a battle that goes on in my head.
Which prize is more prestigious? I cannot choose.
Is it that engraved crystal trophy that I want
Or words of praise in the critics’ reviews?
The audience stands up to applaud me,
My eyes search for the silk crimson tie
Your disappointed face shows lack adoration,
Making me ask myself, “Why do I even try?”
I’ve failed to impress you with my art,
Neither accolades nor cooking have done the
trick.
Our arms are entwined in each others’
Yet, I’m still feeling lost and homesick.
So tell me what’s the missing ingredient,
Darling?
The world at my feet, and yet I look for you.
Why are you the real target in my head,
When I do the stuff that I do?
No comments:
Post a Comment