I don’t fear death of my body
Life away from this controlling world
I fear death of my creativity
I fear becoming paralysed by the money aspiration of this world
I fear that their good intentions may mean the death of me…of me
A death from which I may never be able to rise from
More academia, more salary, ‘Do not disappoint’ I read without sound nor letter
As my lifeless soul dangles helplessly above the sea of eternal darkness to depression
I look my captures in the eye. I am tied to my death
My family’s good intentions, My boss’ good intentions, the debt of money’s good intentions
No pressure they said…I am 23…
As I cry out to my creativity…slowly disappearing from my art….
Logic guides my paint brush…I’m insulted!
I can slowly feel my creativity slip away
From my hands
From my mind
From my soul
From my art
And there is nothing I can do about it.