Blue

The other day, someone called me an artist.

I am labeled an artist because of my melancholic temperament and the way in which I examine life and its wonders.

The reason this comment stuck with me is because I wrote a poem about a month ago about why I think I fail as an artist.

I’m no artist – August 28, 2016

I’m no artist

But my mind is distressed

I roam this earth broken

With the weight of my world heavy on my chest

 

I escape through the arts

Incapable of freeing myself from this pain

I know I am not all there but,

My cries for help seem to be in vain

 

I am meant for greatness

Because mental disturbances and talent seemingly correlate

Sadly, I am not talented at all

And that, my friend, is the root of my distressed mental state.

– – –

I wish these times of despair would channel more creativity, but I’m having the hardest time choosing to leave my room each day, let alone take the time to write.

I deal with this perpetual headache so lost in my thoughts that I don’t even know what I am thinking anymore.

I walk on the promenade, feeling numb. Feeling disconnected from the people around me, the people who love me. I can’t love them back.

This state of being has left me incapable, inhibited, blue and I don’t know what to do.

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