When it's blown to pieces, that's when it becomes art.
Art is a demon, a demon that drags you along.
It's messy and ***** when it pours out of you.
It's not something you can stop even if you should.
Maybe your wife leaves you
Maybe your kid runs away
Maybe you go insane..
You throw yourself away to be an artist

when the day begins i taste salt
dreams turned into nightmares
can't tell between reality and sleep
at this point it's hard to care

misery is my loyal companion but
there's worry it's all in my mind
to feel all this but chaotic and wrong
don't want to accept that maybe i'm fine

saying i'm okay doesn't help
cause and effect can't be traced
so many variables of what could be bad
my own self is hard to face

the girl in the mirror is me but not
i barely recognize details
what if this is all my fault
how did i become so frail