my creativity is the smell of musty paint
dying on the palette
cobwebs and stale muslin
shroud the outside sunlight
my art is a silent crowded room
a tiger asleep in a cage
a coma induced by violent meat
years of suppressed rage
my mind is a lighthouse obscured by fog
too many paths thru the wood
my consciousness a traffic-jam
a heart that wishes good
my creativity is stuck in treacle
obsessions are a drug
i am an anxiety junkie
drowning in the mud
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