Artistic Expression

As I ink these words to this paper, 
I become keenly aware of my art 
and its degradation into safer 
sonnets, comfortable and boring... art. 

This isn't paper, its reproduction. 
My words elope to find lyrical love. 
They hold no Shakespearean instruction, 
choosing instead to copulate above 

my head, just out of realistic reach. 
This sadness inherent in metaphor 
presents a sad image, prosodic leech. 
I forget, what was I writing this for? 

Sigh, another anti-climactic peace, 
wasted time perfecting a nothing piece.