the life of an artist

Is my writing only good when I’m drowning? When I’m down to my knees and my soul shouts heal Is my happiness on only when I’m socializing? When I cry of laughter only so my sad tears can be sealed Is my depression the only motive of my paintings? When I pour into a canvas only so my ideas can be cleared Are those same ideas present with my happy self? If not, who am I when I’m happy? Is my tongue only flexible when I’m faking? When I play with sweet words only so that my façade can be shielded? Is this double sword personality of mine the only way to be acceptable? If it is, is this fair to my heart? To my brain? To my body? Is it fair to me? Or even to them? Or is it the hidden rule played by the elite?