Does the best art come from the worst pain?
If my mind is clearer than tell me,
why do these letters feel heavier to write?
I am thinking more rationally, aren’t I?
Then why to I despise everything I write?
If love describes my life,
why does fear reek from my art?
Tell me why do I feel incompetent
without my pain, my crazy?
How can it define me,
how can it be this visible?
Am I me without pain?
Am I an artist, a writer?