Laugh with a Draft

I wrote a poem, I sometimes do that.
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But in finality and purity, these words mean so much- yet I'm blinded by their insincerity.
All this is, is a dishonest fold of revelation, self-accusation, and starvation. And so much more, more to be rimmed with void and vapid acid, utterance. To begin brimming with knitted yarn, only to come to the conclusion of dissociative veracity.
Words are weapons to be wielded, and when wielded correctly, can-
work-
WONDERS.
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Art does not belong to me.