I told myself every idea was *******,
just white noise sloshing in my head,
until I could bury that urge to put pen to paper
knowing
deep down behind the wall of sinew and flesh
pumping oxygen and platelets
deep beneath my skin
I just  hated feeling like this.
I gave up expressing myself,
convinced
of my deaf audience
convinced
that perhaps everything
I did was
worthless,
When I broke my reality
and rose from the ashes fresh glazed
from the fiery kiln of my personal hell
I did not realize I was to experience the most
monumental of my creative acts,
the recreation of myself
in complete solitude.
And perhaps
I'm still a little angry'
and very sad.