⟢ 𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓱𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮 ⟢

My hands ache for purpose
To see the world simply go by is not enough
To sit complacent for even a moment, it would be the death of me
Even where my words fail me, my hands could not possibly
For they are the gateway through which I tell the world
Of what I see,what everyone sees and what no one can see

Scratching, tearing, clawing
I rip at my very being, eager to use my soul the only way I know how
The only way i've ever known
Desperate to leave a mark on something
Desperate to call something my own

Even if walls collapse around me
Voices blare, ears bleed and
Salty rivulets etch painful memories into my cheeks
I scribe my blood onto the pristine paper and
Stain it in shades only i see

Where I fashion my works there is nothing and no one,
I am free to create what I please
Free to live in a fantasy rotted by naivete,
Or one of horrors the world could not possibly fathom
For once in the turbulent throes of life I am in control

So I let my mind bleed onto the page
No matter if the world cuts me deep and scars my soul,
Or if it blinds me with its ever fading radiance
I will continue to create
And be relieved for however long from the all encompassing strifes
Of everyday life