It is such a pity how some peopleAre dead long before their hearts stop beating.

They give us eighteen years To figure out how to spend our lives;We’re pushed towards high-paying careersAt the cost of letting our dreams die.

Forgive often and completely.

As artists, we create the beautyWe are too afraid to live outAnd search, but always fall just shyOf finding what life is about.

As a kid, I never was the type to color in the lines.I used to wonder, why do the lines even exist?When these pictures in my head are ripe for harvestingAnd I can give the world something it’s never seen before.

I like to imagineThat when we look uponA pitch black night’s skyAnd ignorantly label it colorlessIs it actually filled with all the colorsWe could never even imagine.

The stars stare back In that deep, Soul-shattering blacknessAnd from the depths of existenceComes a cruel, icy windRaising the hairs On the back of your neckAnd suddenly it feelsLike you’re walking a tightropeOver that endless abyssOn one sad, fraying, thinViolin string.

I often wonder and imagineWhat lies just beyond the fringeOf the human experience;What is it that we do not see?

I’ve been worried since I left the wombLike a schizophrenic on shroomsLike a hypochondriac on crackNever shy with the panic attacks;Internal reality succumbs to psychosisDreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.