The rush
Coursing through precise veins
Person turned personification
Slave to your own chains

The push
Over the edge of our personal cage
Don't look down on me
Unable to change locked on stage

Hormones, emotions
Ecstatic pleasure, boiling rage
My own whips
My own pains

Reflection of the ugly
Pushed forth on the style I scratch into existence
My poem, my self, both primitive
Art and I kept at subsistent distance