Sometimes it's hard to
Come to terms with the person you've
Become— pencil untouched for
Weeks, your
Favourite song is one you don't
Know the name of after you hit
Shuffle on a random playlist
And still you're too tired to find its
Name. Even the AI
You talk to's left you behind
In the dust; more artistic than
You ever were. The heat's left
You unable to rhyme.
Slowly it starts to sink in—
Like debris in dish soap—
Maybe you're no longer an artist
And just one of those Etsy
Sentence-writers that sell
Two seconds' work for more
Than a Mixue dessert.
You wish for ice cream,
Though you yourself start
To melt under the sun.
I guess it takes one to know one.