I'm a tortured artist but not making any art.

I feel robbed of my self, but it's my fault, letting people incrimintely take away who I was, believing love's potential. Wanting passion and spark to fill the emptiness death left me with.

I have fought and failed, I should be writing and drawing like a maniac, but I stay too low, too squashed.

There should be enough pain to produce endlessly, but I am blank.

Filled with an echo of who I still am, screaming into a void of who I was.