Swirls of colors entwined in meaningless patterns, bated breath upon my lips. Sickness loathing, trapped from the inside, drowning from deep down within my own flesh. An artist's mind trapped, lost in its own erratic design and lacking conformity, though wishing it could take up wings and touch the sky with soft beats of broken blades.
I write; I breathe so harshly, desperately seeking the oxygen that my body requires through the pain and suffering that my body has grown accustomed to. I write, and am given false praises of having a 19th century writer entombed in my bedroom, languidly providing idle thoughts for me to type on this little screen. False praises; for none should be able to simply close their eyes and write this way.
But are any of you listening? Is anyone reading? Do you know of what I speak or am I blind...
Blind and deaf, unable to speak as I clutch at my chest in one last, hopeful moment.
It isn't enough to save me.