It's like every creative bone
In my body has cracked and dried.

Artist's osteoporosis.

Turning into hollowed shells
And even typing this now
Feels dead and empty.
As if pointless
Because there is no heart.

I crash all too often
With no idea how to get back up.

I'm tired.
So soul tired that nothing ******* matters.
Yet it's funny to me the way my anxiety reminds me constantly
Of everything I'm terrified to lose.

It's like I can never win with you
Brain.

It's always a lose-lose
And the positive affirmations always feels
Like drinking medicine.

Sickly sweet and a fake *** remedy.