A desperation, heartbeats that never end
And always quicken: surely
I've got to implode at some point
Can I take the pressure?
Not really certain.

Don't I need some respite from this
Painful, agonising desire
And ambition? Just a week or two
To die a little
And sit
And be somebody
Who is not myself.

I truly cannot wait to resolve this desperation:
My ideal is sound, is beautiful and good
And yet I know that I am doing this for the wrong, the
Wrong reasons, and somehow the means is rotten
While the end remains a work of art.

You always were a work of art, and these days, having grown
A little older,
I no longer stare at you, dumbfounded and unimpressed,
Because now I see you as a Lichtenstein: an ideal form.

You always loved Lichtenstein, and I grew to love his work.
It is so terribly difficult for me
To get you out of my throbbing mind,
And yet so difficult to recognise
Goodness in what I am doing:
Will this just end up painfully wrecked and scattered
Across a sea of guilt? That's what happened last time, isn't it?

I am so terribly sorry for what I am about to do:
The means are flawed
But the end is supreme.