it's like how can I start fresh
if I can't erase
hating everything I seem to create
stray to think different
but my soul is caged
hidden under floorboards
are the ideas I make

but I feel calm and at home
in the darkness
feeling cold and lethargic
but creating art
with my fingertips
alone with the hopes and the gods
I illustrate pain
in slow and graceful strokes

tirelessly knitting an infinity scarf
cooped up in a small room
with my mouth sewn shut
I lyrically piece together scraps of
the thoughts inside my head
to write an unauthorized version
of me instead

working steady without pause
till the ink dries up
words spilling out truths
of my purest disgust

I am the artist whose painting
to begin with was fake
I am the unrooted vine that grew
despite its wilted fate