I’m trying to rescue me from myself
But I have no strategy.
I have incentive to paint
But with words not pictures.
Masterpiece gift tied in a bow
A present, not a restraint.
Holding ‘The Morbids’ at bay today
Though they captivate me so.
Trapping me in their vampiric gaze
And rarely letting go.

I’m beginning to think less now,
It’s getting better.
The feet on the floor, arise,
The victory of leaving the pillow.
Yet I’ve had enough of adventures
Intelligence destroys my brain
And opens my heart to the point of breaking
A shell of emotion unprotected.
Creating, photographing, destroying,
Life’s a collage of bloody remembrance.
Curled into a cellar of self reflection
Pushing the locked door, silently.

History has boiled the egg faster
Sucking joy into a vacuum
And positivity is only reflected in the broken mirror of one’s past endeavours.
More than seven years bad luck for sure
How many more before the shards begin to cut
And the image is forever mutilated?