(This poem is trash that was in my head.)
People say that artist and depression have the same origin
Imagination
It's funny cause if someone handed me a brush with bristles of my thoughts and a bucket of time in my room alone
I could paint murals across town buildings across every church, my schools, my therapist office.
But for the people who have broken me?
Well
I'd give them the paint brush, crafted with only my darkest thoughts, a paint bucket of insecurities
On a canvas so they could decide how I act how I breath how I walk
They are the ones that make me self destructive
The only ones who make me wanna slit my wrists and play in my own blood
They are the reason for my fucked up brain
Some days I take all my paints and splash them on to one tiny canvas so it ends up looking like a cold grey
On those day I sit in my room
Quiet
Cold
I don't know how to help myself
I hate you
I hate you
You hurt me more and more each day
Today all the paint spilled from my brain
I grab my brush and take this paint onto the brush, through my fingertips, to the screen on which your reading this from
I call these days the worst days
