The Constant That Starts My Day

art is my artillery
with black ink to write what I think, express the things that I feel
my obstacles fall
vent inspired from lacking a social engagement
with a functional mental arrangement
my psychological disorder bipolar, chain attached to my footprint
the unexplainable frustration, lack of motivation shredded to be
reconstructed with paint and vision
clearing a path towards calm with each brush stroke
The motivation pushing through sickness
Depression and sleep exhaustion continue moving me forward
If each tear supplied the water to my brush
you would find paintings of raw emotion
countless hours stuck trying, revealing what is out of my control
I have the world in my hands
with what I can create tucked away in notebooks and journals
pages piled up, frayed and worn
art continues be a voice that speaks better than my own
only a pencil can provide a way to share my perception of reality
nothing is consistent brain cells die and memories wither
should writing and pictures be the only paper trail I leave
there is a guarantee they will provide more accuracy
art is the only constant I hold aside from
the unavoidable truth I shall one day cease to exist

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