Another Portrait

Writing, Writing

I treat the words as a painter and his brushes. What could my world be? I’m just a product of these things.

A ghost hidden among sincerity and anguish.
Sometimes the words paint me standing tall with light surrounding me.

But majority of the time the words paint me as a child trapped in a dark well where the top seems further and further away.

Sometimes it feels like I’m holding myself back. Like there is so much more to show, but there is nothing more to show.

Failed self portraits that show my insecurity, pride, joy, pain, confusion, and they all are showcased in places anyone can see. These self portraits created in isolation and darkness. The words bouncing off the walls until they hit the canvas. I spent so much time trying to scream at the walls that i put up, but they won’t talk back. The self-portrait
All of these portraits wrapped in a gold striped frame on black canvas, words that seem to melt together and create blurred images of my childhood, my wonder, my passion. Things I’m unsure of yet still impact me.

Some days the words paint me in blue and create wondrous waves that seem to flood parts of me. Some times the words paint me in a burning red and where my heart is full of desire and love to share.

I know the paintings are of me, but the faces all seem to melt away and all that is left is an empty vessel. A template for who I could be. If only I could just combine all these pieces of art, into a mural.
A dedication to myself for staying in this dream for this long.

But I’m afraid, no, more so ashamed to see this complete self-portrait.
I can’t face myself, looking in the mirror is hard.

I don’t want to tear apart the only art I’ve been apart of.

Some days I feel overwhelmed, incomplete. So I find distractions. Things that keep the words from creating more portraits.
I want to give up on this craft and never see another part of myself anywhere.

It’s an ongoing battle with depression, it all builds up.

I haven’t given up, even if I did.
So what?

Either way, I’m doomed to damnation.

I know my grandmother watching over my soul every day as I try to find myself through various ineffective actions.

I don’t think it’ll save me.

I’ve been trying to illustrate the origin of all this sadness and all I can come up with is landscapes filled with bright stars that dangle over a burning sky. Shadows of my family are walking through a frozen forest. Piles of ash lay scattered through the forest floor. The remains of the portraits from my childhood I’ve begun to burn. There I am at the end of the forest In the snow covered pine. Paint brush in hand canvas smeared.

All the ghosts I’ve been escaping and all the love I want it all to reach me and to let me know that I’ll be ok. That the darkness is temporary and that even the coldest places can be beautiful.

Because I want to share these paintings with everyone, I know they see in me the things in me that I ignore.

Even if they are poorly illustrated.
I want to frame all the sorrow and frame it in gold and hang it in my gallery.

Even the ugliest paintings have value.

I just hope I have value, even though everything I touch seems to freeze and break apart.

I’ve been so afraid to paint lately, I’m always afraid to lose,
To succeed.

I’ve lost so much already, I always feel like I gain so little. Like my actions don’t matter.

Like these words are pointless, and no matter how hard I try. I can never express myself the way I want to.
sometimes all the paintings feel like a reminder.

Of everything. I’m an overwhelming force.

Can’t stand myself.

There are these times where I feel affected by the simplest phrases. If you line them up just right they can tell the deepest truths.

There was a week where I stayed awake, for days. Staring at a blank canvas waiting for the words to come to me. I waited, I just waited. Hopeful that sometime would come. That my mind would rattle and shake loose some idea.

Instead I just felt empty. I felt powerless and alone.
I don’t know why I couldn’t just give in and sleep, or why I felt the desire to cry.

Maybe it’s because I have abandonment issues, or maybe because I feel like I’ve lost enough and I don’t want to lose the words. Maybe it’s because I’ve never felt like I’ve never had a home. Or maybe it’s because I’m tired of always losing everything I care about just to find myself at the end of my rope again.

Feeling this empty. It feels like I could die at any second and I wouldn’t feel a thing.

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