All my life I strived to be different.
Ever since I took my first breath I've considered myself an artist and may I feel that way until my last.

As a kid I carried my painting kit everywhere and I'd sit and reshape reality into something artistic.
Something that was mine
and nobody else's.
I dipped my paintbrush in a cup of water, tryna not mix the wrong shades
but I did eventually
and thought it wasn't resplendent, the road I once painted, it brought me here.

I love my life
but I've always known I deserved better than that.

The passers-by didn't love me.
I was an outsider in each town where I tried to settle down.
I was no local
I was no resplendent god
I was a ghost in high school, I lived so close but I was no ******* local still (???)

And so I freed a lexical avalanche instead of screaming
God I hate to scream.
My art makes me glad of the pathway I've chosen
and the people I've turned into
I'm glad I'm not anymore.

although
Somehow somewhere I heft this longing
of clasping chain link fences and pulling over by highway drive through coffee shops
The longing for chasing sunsets and dancing in the rain
opening the lid of my miniature treasure chest and putting on my lucky charm...

How do I make this life real?
not a painting or a poem...

                        ???                             ­    ???
       ???                                   ???

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                  ???                                  ???
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I guess I'm gonna have to write