I read today something about making art.
That’s what I’m doing. Making art.
My words are clay.  I shape my feelings into a cracked mold.
My words are paint. I watercolor as I drown, only to realize my canvas is paper.
My words are a camera. I shake a capturing of my soul in a dark room on a s***ty negative. I shake and shake and shake and the picture never gets clear.
My words are charcoal, I shade in the light until it gets dark and the dark gets darker.
My words are crayons of a child. Broken and beaten, struggling to finish the bigger picture and never staying in the lines.

It’s not beautiful

But it’s art.