There you sit
Smug and sure of yourself
Silent yet snarky
Your wisdom, your worth
Your self-richteousness.

Why do I desire your
Acceptance, your favor
When you only have enough for yourself,
Only for those whom you approve of?

Here I sit, opposite of you,
of your self-created grace and glory,
looking at me as if I were the epitome of evil.
I don’t feel evil, just worthless in your eyes.

Why is your morality better than mine?
Why do you portray your holiness supreme
and mine as worthless and undesirable?

Why do you politicalize your faith?
I don't with mine, sweet Jesus I cannot fathom why you do.

That sweet embrace.
That comforting hold.

So cold and distant,
yet burning with a passion
of a blistering fire.

It brings me tears,
not of tenderness,
not for its wild
and voracious appetite.

But because of the emptiness that I feel when I speak not its language.

Too long have I shut my creativity out,
refusing to sculpt my abilities, and instead
looking at my creativity as a waste of time and energy.

I have seen much time come and gone
since I last let my soul scream across an
empty canvas waiting to be woken up.

I must create.
I must live art.

My poor soul cries out for its life-blood.
Its cracked and jagged being
swoons to be heard, to be seen, to be felt.

Art is the language of my soul.

I don’t know what I would do
if I could not create,
to draw,
to paint,
to sculpt,
to write.

My hands and fingers
are the outlets of my creativity;
they allow me to put into shapes and images
what my soul is trying to get me to understand.

Without art I am heart broken,
as if my soul has been plucked
out of me
and a clump of nothingness
put in its place.

Why then, do I push myself away
from allowing my soul to sing?
Why do I become angry and limit my ability
as a form of self-punishment?
To what purpose does this actually help?

Without my art and creativity have I become a better person?
No, I have not.
I have suffered.
My soul has suffered.

I can no longer devalue my creativity
as a mere waste of time.

It is where my love sings, where my soul cries out.

Art is the language of my soul.
I pray I don’t forget this again.

My heart cries out in agony and pain,
the tears shedding across my face
as I try to wipe the sorrow away.

My **** eyes betray me
and cry out what my voice
has shut out.

I feel useless, worthless,
so empty inside.
I want to cry out in joy,
but I cannot.

If I did who would hear me,
who would find any joy in my heart that I cannot?

My heart cries out in a deep sorrowful remorse
that cannot be consoled. Is there really joy in there?

There would be less pain if I poked my eyes out.

Those **** eyes.

The many deaths I have endured, I cannot even count.

My soul has dried and cracked,
hardened to the core.

My heart has bled dry,
shedding itself of all life.

My spirit has withered
into a small dry stump of nothing.

My courage has collapsed
and shed into a million pieces.

My will has fled and left me
feeling worthless and useless.

My joy has become no more
than a distant memory of better times.

These things, these drastic things, these horrible times!
I have made myself discouraged and downtrodden.
What can I do? What can I say? What things can I do?
These deaths, these dreary and antagonizing deaths!

My love of life has hunkered down in dismay and is crying.
My free spirit has fallen prey to heavy chains of doom.
And these many deaths I have succumbed to,
With no chance of recourse!