I cannot and refuse to be taken away and locked up; I do not need a room of soft walls and no corners, locked inside without option. Treatment is a joke. I've no options. No horizon or burst.
My writing it shit, it suffers in its focus of pain, death, and perpetual darkness. No growth. Nothing of creation, excitement, wild unfiltered needs, adventure or spirit, experience. With no novel work in at the least, half a year; not that it was good work anyways, but it was something. Art? Sculpture? hell, there is nothing there, projects are at a quality level matching that of emotionless assigned pieces from an art student in high school. I feel nothing, I'm not even an artist? Who am I? Am I really nothing?
I think I will just go with the previously thought out option of entering the junkie lifestyle, destined to die alone in an alley.
Maybe then I will just be a poem.
