I think my last painting was in 2011. The urge is back. The waves of noise seems to have brought me to a new sense of the need to express myself. Perhaps people don't understand me, but I'm sure my family does not. I come away from the weekend feeling very isolated. The silence in my head is deafening.
"Me"
The more I wrote, the more I erase.
Sometimes I tire of the facade.
Every time I start to believe,
the darkness returns,
Why does life mess with me?
I'm solid, I'm strong,
I'm weak, I'm torn.
I can't be me. I'm scared of me.
Not for you, but for me.
written today.
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