Have you ever been inspired in the dark?
Have to answer to yourself for everything inside?
It’s why I’m afraid of silence.

Inspiration is a virtue,
So I splatter paint on the walls,
Only to find it’s dripped onto my bed.
Where’s the picture?  All I see is
Chaos and meaninglessness.
I’d much prefer that blank canvas again,
But paint has a nasty habit of staining,
Even the mirror’s painted blue and green
Like a sea of regret.
I wish I could see myself in it.
But there’s nothing left to see,
So I buried it within my skin that used to be so thick.
.
They tell me:
“Don’t fix what isn’t broken,
And if it is, cutting won’t fix it.
Put down the razor.”
And I scoff.