Artist

 

This pen across the paper
is like a knife against my skin.
Both bring pain, tears, screams.
Both bring relief, a short lived
comfort that lets me know I'm
still alive.
A subtle expression, only for
few to see, true signs of my
insanity.
Cries for help?  Callings for pity?
Or just a natural attack,
spilling ink and blood and drowning
my sorrows in the liquids, only stopping
when they say I'm doing wrong.
But like the addict I've become,
I crawl back to the blade,
the pencil, and once again move it
across the palate and continue
to create these masterpieces.