I just found a poem I wrote some time ago.
It is crudely scrawled across a hastily folded page, shoved into my book of other poems, with lots of crossing out all over it, but on re-reading it now nearly two years later I have decided I love it.
Sex crazed libertine,
your personal agenda,
and motives unseen.
Narcissistic thief of dreams,
and immoral schemes.
You’d think I was writing about the Marquis de Sade wouldn’t you? At the time it felt like I was.
I find it strangely coincidental, that last night I found myself randomly happening upon and reading Marquis de Sade quotes and then this morning I come across my poem about a very real person that was in my life some time ago and that I had painted in this way.
Do I still feel the same way? Hell yes.