Artist

Another fight,
Another dawn begining with loud heartbeats, and rage in sight,
Another evening of calm before the storm,
Another question answered with spit in faces,
Another alphabetic chaos leading to a tear havoc,
Another night of sensory apacolypse,
Another midnight of hardworking spiders crosscheking a web,
What would happen if I were born somewhere different?
And another bad word,
Just one more bad word,
I’ll burn this house to the ground.

And take out my paper and pen,
Draw enigmatic purple, red, orange flames,
And say, “this is my family portrait”
For this is all we had for one another,
A wild blaze,
A burning rage,
And I made it real,
For that I’m an artist that’s my work to do so,
And another taunt in the name of well wishes,
Another praise for the wish to reciprocate,
Another high pitched howl to tolerate,
Another war for a miracle that won’t happen,
Another compemsation for none of my fault,
Amother theft of my right to love,
Another bulgary of my dreams to be together with somebody,
And just another scratch of frustration in my journal,
And one more bad word,
I’ll burn this house to the ground.

Then I’ll rip myself into shreds,
Hit my head till you can’t tell from bones to brain,
Gun in my mouth, cut in my wrist, vaccum in my vain,
I cant take it,
I can’t take another,
Daily ritual of being together,
And I’ll draw enigmatic purple, orange, red flames,
And draw our family portrait.
A wild blaze,
A burning rage,
I’m an artist, I’ll make it real.

What are you looking for?