There is no art.
Only the scribblings of madness
Bled onto a paper or canvas
Dying to run out
To cure in the heat
Of our own light
Where it birthed
And died
In the same breath
Of each stroke
In each every hue
The story of us
leaks into the air
Onto a medium
That is set before us
on long sodden sheets
Originally white and pure
We then set apart
To begin
There is no art
Only Sin.

beautiful, it is
this life of mine
blessed in every way
struggle to find
the reasons behind
my restless state of mind
prone to self destruction
rhythmic disruption
break my own heart just to feel intensely alive

Drown myself in the river of time
Bloated in my mind.
Sorrow,
Regret.
Plucked out by the roots
Embedded so deeply
Supposedly free.
How to heal over?
Find compassion for my seventeen year old self
Forgive?
Forget?
Move forward with her cells still circulating inside of me.
Proven scientifically.
Ugliness wells up inside
Self disgust too gross to hide
Manifest on the outside
Mark my face-
Red and raw
Heavily sedated
Medicated.
Artificially dilated

I'm an old cassette,
With my shell intact
but my ribbons are tangled.
Prolapsed.
lying in a messy heap-
Slick and shiny-
Rescue me.
Stick a pencil in my cog-
turn to reveal
the faded songs of my youth
OR smash me in the street.
I'm only plastic, so I can't feel

Onward,
Upward,
Forward,
Ice glazed hills
bloodied knees
Complication.

fumble in darkness
finally a foothold.
realization
motivation
clarification
purification.