Imprisoned by Art

Fixing things is never simple.

You first must let go of

your old life story's interpretations.

They're useless in a new setting;

in a yon milieu, things grow anew.

Like hiking to undiscovered places.

Inspired by pure spirits,

I'm here, present in this space

cramming the night and cracking at dawn.

There is something for everyone.

But for me, this wall,

painted a vibrant purple.

Is where dreams come alive.

It's unusual, but not entirely.

A space I've rarely seen, never lived in.

Sleep and work, then work and sleep again,

a perfect routine, all rolled into one.

The past - it glows with vibrant hues

never dreadful, just a twist and whirl of feathers.

Shifting shapes reveal hidden signs

now surging through the walls, a constant presence.

Beyond transformation,

crossing the woven fabric of transgression.

It dances and squirms, as the inspiration wills,

just to please the Muse.

Born of nothing,

but we know its true origin.

Giving the subconscious free rein,

quieting the conscious mind to get through the day,

writing from instinct and losing sight.

Some critics might argue,

“It's all for the sake of art!”

But when there's no money, is it just amateur work,

or undiscovered potential?

Which?

Maybe I'll figure it out someday.