I live alone inside of my sad little brain,

And it’s not big enough for this inventory of thoughts,

And I can’t shut the factory down.

So I create art.

I don’t know what else to do,

I’m not good at anything else,

And it hurts so fucking bad.

And I think that nothing

Can soften the jagged edges

Of what I have to live with;


And all of the judgment

That I have received

Is nothing

Compared to what I do

To myself

In my own mind

Whenever I am alone.

I hear them,

And this is what they say;

You are a moron,

And a fraud.

You are am imposter.

No one wants to read your sophomoric ramblings,

Or look at your silly, girly paintings of trees.

You’re a poser, and you shit in a bag,

And you fucking stink.

I fight with myself constantly,

And I don’t know how to fight back,

Or how to win,

Other than

To do the things

That I am most

Afraid to do.



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