Looking into the “real world”
all I see is warped.
Elongated faces, meaningless
scribbles and dabs of ochre, ebony
paint.
My surface ripples, sending dull
colour into deeper black.
Looking into my “dream world” is where
I live.
Inside my head.
I like to dream.
Locked up inside, I stare into
The lonely, pitch black cornfield,
black like coal. Just like my heart.
Placing a trembling hand to where my ear used
to be,
I drop my paintbrush.
Gazing into the sky, crows mock
me, crying down at me.
My path ends here.
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