ur art is the words of the hopeful
basking and bathing in pools of eternal meaningless sundries
thrashing and skulking nailing hammers and throwing axes all over ur skull least of all importances- enter the subconscious, ur mind speak, and ur mouth steep- mountains of hanging ropes and jaded hopes

ur ****** mind convoluted, cracking open that is-

and ripped that fountain of colors and burst that bleeding artistry out like an ultimate tranquil fondue dripping on that empty sockets

might be someday be someone swimming on it.