My mark

I want to make art. I want to make art of my life. I want to make art of my feelings and my soul. But I am not a painter or a designer or a sculptor. I am not a writer or a singer or a musician. I cannot synthesise art to please the people.

but who said I have to please the people. I will make art. I will make art of my broken mind. I will show the world the wicked and twisted truths that it carves into it’s young. I will make art so gruesome and raw and dark and putrid that people will not want to see it. But it will be my mark.

I will leave my mark. My stain on the soft silk sheets of this earth. My dark stains in this deluded hell hole of life like a toddler on the freshly painted walls. I will scribble with crayons or pens or whatever I can hold. I will not wipe away my wrongs I will not accept this truth I am forced. I will not stop until every inch that I can reach is filled.

I am not an artist. I am not a painter or a designer or a sculptor. Not a writer or singer or musician. I am a scared child so affraid to be forgotten or lost that I will do anything to leave my mark.