i’ve killed
versions of myself
so much
i no longer
recognize myself
as of late
i’m
tired
withered and
sore
my shoulders
less dislocated than my soul is
carry the weight
and sacrifice
of the cross i bear
my sword drags across the floor
i have no manner in which to reconcile
anymore
i can only continue
painting
my mother raised
a broken man from the start
but simultaneously
an artist
i know nothing else
but the continuation of
dashing red lines
across a field of lilies
while the bodies pile
in muddy clays
the reds and browns
collide and combine
and it is reminiscent of a
grand canyon
of sorts
mother, i know there’s a crater
left in me
weep i shall
but **** i must
it must all return to a dust
in order for me to continue
raging
so yes
give in to this rage
i must
as i also devote all other efforts
to honing it
it hurts, mother,
i want to give up
i want to die
and stay dead
one last time
but i’ve been cursed with being
my own hero
my own teacher
my own master
my own leader
my own brother
my own companion
mother, i admit you were right
you were right in telling me at
age five
that no one would ever
come to save me
all i know is that
on the day of your death
there will be your spirit
and the only hope for my soul
will be this constant
nagging fight
against the gravities that
pull on my very being
and on every tethered fiber
of my young
and ignorant angst
so with my sword i’ll keep on
brushstroke
after
brushstroke
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 1:21 PM UTC
i’ve killed
versions of myself
so much
i no longer
recognize myself
as of late
i’m
tired
withered and
sore
my shoulders
less dislocated than my soul is
carry the weight
and sacrifice
of the cross i bear
my sword drags across the floor
i have no manner in which to reconcile
anymore
i can only continue
painting
my mother raised
a broken man from the start
but simultaneously
an artist
i know nothing else
but the continuation of
dashing red lines
across a field of lilies
while the bodies pile
in muddy clays
the reds and browns
collide and combine
and it is reminiscent of a
grand canyon
of sorts
mother, i know there’s a crater
left in me
weep i shall
but **** i must
it must all return to a dust
in order for me to continue
raging
so yes
give in to this rage
i must
as i also devote all other efforts
to honing it
it hurts, mother,
i want to give up
i want to die
and stay dead
one last time
but i’ve been cursed with being
my own hero
my own teacher
my own master
my own leader
my own brother
my own companion
mother, i admit you were right
you were right in telling me at
age five
that no one would ever
come to save me
all i know is that
on the day of your death
there will be your spirit
and the only hope for my soul
will be this constant
nagging fight
against the gravities that
pull on my very being
and on every tethered fiber
of my young
and ignorant angst
so with my sword i’ll keep on
brushstroke
after
brushstroke
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