Am I my art or is my art me?

My words and my paintings might have no relation
To my thoughts and my mind and my current location

Am I responding to existing temptations?
Or is this more then built up frustration?

My thoughts have too many translations
Am I really the creator of my destination?

I copy illustrations
Fueled by inspiration
Holding information
That all lack integration

I have countless hesitations
And I'm in need of confirmation
Someone please offer some consolation
Or maybe an explanation?

Until then I'll continue with so called imitations and miscreations
Until I fully know the situation

Or so help me God
Am I my art,
Or is my art
Me?

I panic easily.
I can't stop worrying about whether or not I closed my bedroom door, and I think it's because I have OCD.
I'm sad for no reason,
And I worry I am depressed.

I don't like walking in crowds of people, and I believe I have anxiety.
I lose hours of sleep checking the corners of my room, leaving the lamp on,
Because I think somethings out to get me.

I am easily annoyed by simple things people do,
And I come up with a list of phobias I might have.
I am too scared to sleep in the dark,
Or to shower without checking behind the curtain whenever I can,
And I think it's cause I have paranoia.

Loud sounds freak me out and make me cover my ears, I don't feel safe anywhere,
And I panic easily.

All I can ask is that you love me anyways.

We are products of creation,
And beings of
destruction.

Everytime I say your name,
It's like repeating the same joke for the a hundredth time,
Everyone one is so tired of hearing it,
But they pretend they aren't anyways.

She was constantly shedding flowers,
Falling from locks of hair,

People always stepping on them,
As they didn't see them there.

Winter was our prime,
Now summers not our time,
How much it hurts to know,
That your heart was never mine.