Looking into the “real world”
all I see is warped.
Elongated faces, meaningless
scribbles and dabs of ochre, ebony
My surface ripples, sending dull
colour into deeper black.
Looking into my “dream world” is where
Inside my head.
I like to dream.
Locked up inside, I stare into
The lonely, pitch black cornfield,
black like coal. Just like my heart.
Placing a trembling hand to where my ear used
I drop my paintbrush.
Gazing into the sky, crows mock
me, crying down at me.
My path ends here.