Paint Splattered Teardrops

My hell is here

In my canvas, my tablet or the pencil in my ear

The divine torture is not fake but true

In the brain I have with all I feel and all that I knew

My hell brings myself teardrops in the form of paint

In the form of words that figuratively show the worth I have I will taint

But in reality, my hell is in the hand of myself, who holds the pencils and paint

Who does not deal with it, but suffers through and creates as a weak attempt to spite the pain

Even w hen my mind and body begin to disdain

I do not listen, dragging myself in a gluttonous hell that I myself have made