some say that those who create have experienced the most pain.
that artists harness their demons and wrangle them into an art form that is beautiful to behold.
after all, it is nearing one am,
my eyes are filled with tears, and my chest aches and heaves with sorrow,
and yet these black words look so beautiful,
thin and elegant against the bright stark background do they not?
I mean, if you were to isolate the words they don't look quite as pretty, thin ugly black lines.
but with such a contrasting background they evoke an element of elegance.
an element of elegance I myself would never even dream of containing nor exuded from my being.
the only thing I excel at portraying or exuded is sadness.
sorrow.
unease.
anxiousness.
loneliness.
I have written so many things, and drawn so many things, seemingly filled with a need to create.
maybe to fill the void.
my fingers itch and twitch, wanting to distract myself.
maybe forget,
forget the pain for a little while.
maybe I'm being a tad over dramatic.
as a theater kid, and artist, I have to be, don't I?
maybe I should be grateful.
with pain always comes my greatest works.
but that doesn't change the fact that my eyes are still burning from tears and my throat raw from screaming into a pillow.
I am but a child that uses art (or nonsense jibberish and scribbles) as an outlet for his childish uncontrollable emotions and selfish wants.
YOU ARE READING
downfall
Poetry"Sometimes you're in so deep, it seems easier to just swim down." tw: self harm, suicide, physical abuse, family stuff, eating disorders, a shit load of negative shit. don't read if you don't like depressing stuff.
