My
creativity is the smell of musty paint, drying on the palette
Cobwebs
and stale muslin shroud the outside sunlight.
My
art is a silent, crowded room. A tiger asleep in a cage
A
coma induced by violent meat and years of suppressed rage.
My
mind is a lighthouse obscured by fog. Too many paths through the wood
My
consciousness is a traffic jam, a heart that wishes good.
My
creativity is stuck in treacle and obsessions are a drug
I
am an anxiety junkie drowning in the mud.
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