Broken Ego

I wish you would take something I've done,
That I find pride and joy in, and make the feelings gone.
Why can't you tell me where I've screwed up in my artwork?
Why can't you tell me what you don't like about my handiwork?
Even if it's just the fact that it's not your style,
You have no problem telling me when you don't like something I've bought or pointed out, because it's not your style.
It hurts more to have unyielding praise,
Then for you to berate me to my face.
For you must think I'm stupid enough to belive the perfection you see
(Or claim you see)
In my "achievements",
And think I'll run headfirst into the world, have one disagreement
From someone, one criticism,
And smash my face on the brick wall of pessimism
From my unyielding optimism,
And come crying to you, where you'll say it's their fault.
But in reality, it's your fault.
It's your fault that my ego is broken because my younger brother is becoming better than me,
At the very thing that I thought was me.
I became an adult, and therefore had no time for improving me.
Art is my essence,
Art is my presence,
Art is my being,
To make art, is my favorite thing,
And I'm the older brother,
Shouldn't I be the best at everything, even just by a tiny margin? Oh, why bother.
Shouldn't I be the one to impress, make a tad bit jealous, and teach?
Or is that a vain goal, just outside my reach?
This is my fault,
And I don't like to blame others, but this is mainly your fault.
You were raising me,
Teaching me,
If I became this way later, then that would be me,
But this isn't how it is, this isn't how it came to be.