I gave up when I lacked the eraser to fix my mistakes. I put the pencil to the paper but it scribbled out all wrong and I knew it would before I began, because my heart was already singing a sad song. It seems I have forgotten to remove myself from what I create. However they say art does not define a creator but is that not what a creator is. Is a creator not born as art? Does a creator not bleed color spilling from every cut open vein caused by past pain? The blood spills and flows onto the page to be played with. The emotion with every word or every brush stroke. So I am angry but why? Because I can not let my blood flow onto the page the same way a painter paints his pain. I can only cleverly describe the sorrow as it builds up at the lip of my eye lids and falls slowly and shamefully down my cheeks. I am outraged and jealous of he who paints his color so elegantly. whilst my color just splashes all over the page and spills over, making no sense. Until I organize it in sentences then it is an overlooked, under appreciated skill in the modern world. Why? Because it is not satisfying? Because it does not look beautiful? Or does no one understand the art of language anymore? The author is a different note in song and no one understands my foreign tune. Tis quite frustrating and degrading am I in need of saving or am I enslaving myself in my own bars carefully smelted and crafted from self doubt as if I were the handy black smith?