The only voices I hear

are from the insane

the lonely

the friendless

the artists and poets

painters of the world

and lovers of creativity

I wish to be surrounded

not by scholars

or the well dressed

nor the wealthy

but by the filth of the earth

the ones commonly seen as useless

drunk off of a lack of mentality

familiar with the cold hush

of whispering voices

crying out the futility of their existence

these that have a mind so loud

they wish to silence themselves

tears poured into a river of color

felt by the disturbed

I wish to only associate myself

with people gripping to sanity

those who crave expression

who can only survive this life

and the next

by splattering their emotions on canvas

in an array of colors

ranging from deep blues

to bright yellows

those whose lifesource

is an overflowing well of ink

who utterly try to spell out

the despairs of this life

the only way known to them

I cry out for the ones like me

who rave fast beating hearts

gasping for air

at untimely morning hours

let the so called sickness of our minds

mentastasize

until we are filled with nothing but

the labels on ourselves

that we have ripped away

I desire not sleep

or beauty

or popularity

or timidness

no,

my brain yearns for more

for sleepless nights

for paints and paper

for passions so explosive

so extraordinary

so indescribable

they spill out

from within the bodies

of the so called dull

the black and white

the wordless

the ones who truly deserve

the inheritance

the ever so restless

the beautiful

so unstable

minds

dripping with

insanity.