When my mood is really, really severe in low, the blur infatuates and intertwines to my brain and pulls on its strings. It gives me a headache.
Delusion could come as if sleep deprived, even if I've rested too long. I sometimes see splotches and panoramic rays that play muted music and torture my shivering eyes, but it isn't seen - I am always unseen. I am falling into the un-belonged. It's a prophecy;..been there since I was too young, feeling isolated from a household family, drawing them away and smiling and me actually on the other corner of the page, with pencil tears. How did it get to this?
I've got so many ideas, but it's far from me. I'm damaged. I think I waited too long to get help and I never had enough care or understanding to feel such - when I love too much, and I'm withered in a mindful painting. I'm just tired.
No one wants to see me busk. No one believes in a creative future, and I can't fathom this determination I have, but it isn't worth it - because I'm not worth it.
Believe it all; I've put in every ignorance and abandon to my smudges in order to force a view of colour and chrome and to talk and laugh. I have relaxed even, and repeated this. But it never ends.
Omnipresent weeks of failed touched strings and unwritten words; the papers of waiting unfinished animations are crumpling and black.
Listen to me and wait for me, for I've never experienced that sincerity; I've had enough.