Paint a thousand portraits and sing a thousand songs.
The work is the escape, for you do not belong.
Many faces, many people, many conversations.
Anger, anxiety, hatred.
Love.
You love to create.
To make.
You are your art and your art is you.
You place your love in your art.
Your art goes unloved, and you shall sob.
Separate the art from the artist?
Separate the air from the lungs,
The veins from the blood,
The sky and the sun.
YOU ARE READING
ballads of heartbreak
Poetry"I'm sorry that I'm like this, I'm trying my best" -essentially a diary, slight tw for being self destructive & harmful, some really good stuff crammed in with a bunch of nonsensical three am cry sessions
