I wish that I could give it up.
That it were only a license
Expiring over time.
But alas, it is inborn,
A divine curse, artistry is.
A curse for there is no choice.
Had there been a choice I would have ran
Far into the opposite direction.
For you could not know unless it were you.
As others only see the births,
And are ignorant as to what it is
To live with the mother inside you.
I fear she has a plan to **** me
And to use me as her means.
She plans to steal my sleep from me.
To convince me I do not deserve rest
Until his face emerges from charcoal
Or until I find a way
To make horses in water a metaphor.
She plans to make me mad
And in this moment holds the lead.
I have forgotten to eat.
I am paranoid every hour.
Someone is watching,
Something is lurking.
Sounds make me cry.
Lights hurt my eyes.
I feel people in my bed.
Even now as I write this,
There is a man standing before me
(That I am certain is not real),
Clothed in white
With an outstretched hand,
Oh so inviting.