The Chasm of Creation
This is supposed to be my outlet.
Emotions I claim are tainted pour out of me,
And I call it art.
This is what recovering looks like.
Pages upon pages of words I’ve kept hidden from the world—
This is what healing looks like.
Feeling more and more,
Just so the inspiration continues,
Because,
Creating feels better than existing ever did.
So why is it,
That my emptiness grows ever deeper?
What was once a narrow hole,
Has grown into an empty chasm,
Leaving my body hollowed out and dry,
Letting scorpions crawl up my spine,
Searching for dews of joy,
That don’t exist.
In anger,
They prick my skin.
Hoping for a reaction,
Only to realize joy isn’t the only thing that’s absent.
Numbness replaces the mind and soul—
My growth has been stunted.
My thoughts have been reeled in.
Everything halted for a single drop of creation—
Was this really just an outlet?
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