Death of the Author

Do you see yourself in my art?

It's to be expected. That's how analysis works. Your lived experience forced on my own story. Did you forget who the author was? I'm sure it doesn't matter. Don't seek my intention. There is none. What is your experience? How does it related to the lines ive written for you? 

Not for you. You sit and observe the world's I build to explain my existence. You build your own in-between the lines. An idea of what I was thinking when I decided to sing for you.

Not for you. Pretend I didn't exist. Would my words line the back of your throat the same way? Would it be more intense if you could claim it as your own? Would the sorrow laced sweet lines mean as much to you if you knew that I wrote them for someone else? Would you be happier if you were my muse? If it was meant for you?

It's not for you.