Artless

This piece is about the pain involved in writing. Enjoy.

Once again I am overtaken by the continuing abuse of language, where words become staples, and these staples become felt.
I am only trying to feel the world, not as my own, but as a place in which I can find a home.
Each voice is contained here, and in my voice, I hope to execute any feeling of otherness and disgust towards this home we share.
It is true, there are some works that continue to be read and admired, as they truly connect the unraveled strings within our hearts.
And it is true, there are many voices who have been silenced before they got a chance to be heard.
Why does art feel so separate?
Today, it feels like an attempt to separate ourselves from all others.
Today, I am losing touch.

I do not flatter myself based upon prose, or elegance. Yet here it comes. Am I being artful enough? Why must I have to focus my mind AND my spirit, when my spirit is lost among these rude conventions. My words are not meant to be ridiculed nor esteemed.
I have already changed my course for the sudden fear of annihilation has crept into my soul.
I am not a writer.
I am you.
You are me.
We are energies, trapped inside of this vessel.
I do not wish to be.

Enough about me. Lets hear it.
Let us watch the rain without feeling its endless drop.
Let us remedy a love potion for distrust.
Let us mold our material bodies together and create a voice unaffected by the strange shadows.
Let us be alive. Let us speak.
Let our harmony live.