It's not good enough.

I scrape apart my fragmented words.

You call yourself a writer?

I smear the fresh ink.

This isn't art.

Flames lick my notepad.

Give it up. No one cares.

I'm trying like hell not to cry this time.

Everything you do is a waste.

The smoke smells like death. I can't breathe.

Stop trying to define art.

I collapse. Oxygen cut from my cells.

What? You think this **** is ironic?**

Without creativity, why exist at all?