It is a curse of negative spaces.
Strange featureless faces
speak in discordant tones
repeating bland talking points.

So, I escape into the worlds I make,
sing in swift but slurred words
making my own rhythms and lyrics
as I stumble in a manic state,
pulled down by the heaviness
of my creative plates,
those several pieces of porcelain
spinning on thinning sticks.
Till, I fall, crack, and break.
Then in my broken state
cut all those around me.