Diary Writing

The Art Called Fear

Tired, yet restless

Trapped; pinned

I look at my dead feathers with

Wide purple eyes Liquid in their fear.

It is grotesque Yet beautiful

The way you clip my wings

Cruel artisan Whose art is torture.


This weight Crushes my chest, my lungs

Of the air That I need to breathe

I claw Catching your skin and blood

As I leave with these eyes still wide open

You grin

From the pain you inflicted

And yet I am free Finally in death


Lately I’ve been kind of depressed with my job. I guess it’s a phase I have to go through. Everyone’s telling me to suck it up and be a man (not literally) but sometimes it’s hard when you have nobody to listen to you.

I just want to tell someone and have them listen, not have them judge me. 

Coincidentally (to the title), I’m going for an art event later.


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