I'm tired of feeling this way
No matter what the day
Tired of feeling disjointed, disfigured
With my missing parts scattered on the ground
Knowing not all the parts are there to be found
I am only deconstructed, not reconstructed
I can never again be whole
I'll never be myself of old
Someone tell me why I should go on
Only a piece of a person, most of me gone
I just want to lay the rest of me down, how can that be wrong

There are words
that need to be written,
but I can't seem to find them.
Instead
they keep me awake;
searching
and searching
and searching...
reminding me of the past,
worrying about my future,
trying to figure out
where I went wrong
and all of the ways
I still could.
They say to just write
about what you feel;
but this pain extends deeper
than any given language
could ever hope to explain.
And if they don't exist
how can they be used
to help me recover?
When will I get a reprieve?
Find time for my poor soul to grieve.

I strike the canvas with bitter paint
Sink the graphite blade through the innocent White
My charcoal hides the stains
This oil will covers the cuts

Is my painting good enough for you?
Tell me now, while the flames lick my soul
Is my gift still what shames you?
Is that what liberates me still a weakness in your eyes?

I may be able to create untold horrors on empty sheets,
I may be able to draw a journey to the soul,
I may be able to give way to a masterpiece,
But to you, all these colors are what make me less than a man

So I'll splatter the ink
Slice the void
Paint my hell
Because this is Art,
This is Life
Because this is Liberation