Crazy
Crazy is what you call me
mentally I’ll
Psychotic
You told me I was crazy when you saw the blood on the pages. You were shocked
Am I crazy?
Mentally ill
Psychotic
I’m am a person who’s heart is too big for his body. It’s desperate, it needs to escape, to beat, to feel. I cut my skin to set it free. You tell them I’m
Crazy
Mentally ill
Psychotic
I’ve seen too much
It gave me power
Power to show empathy that you can only dream of feeling, but you don’t wanna feel it. You don’t care why I hurt you just care that I bleed on paper
And you call me crazy
Mentally ill
Psychotic
But I get why you don’t want to feel it, this empathy poors more feeling and growth into my heart which is already too big for my body to bear. The body that doesn’t fit, that doesn’t feel like my body anymore. Is that
crazy
Mentally ill
Psychotic?
But you can’t blame me this body is not what I was supposed to have. I’m missing parts I should have, and I have parts that I don’t need. Why would I want to be in a body that was never my own? I want to cut off every feature that you say makes me look like a girl. I want to shave, scrape, claw, and pull off every cell of skin that you have touched. But that’s
Crazy
Mentally ill
Psychotic
And once my skin is gone, and I’m bleeding onto the floor, I can finally escape this body. Forever.
Nobody can hurt it again. Nobody can hurt me again. But even after I’m gone you will say I was
Crazy
Mentally ill
Psychotic
I paint everything I feel. That I need to feel. What I want to do to my body. What I want to do to those who hurt me. Exploding my heart, my blood, my guts, my arteries, veins, liver, muscles, tissue, everything that makes up my body onto the paper. Everything that makes me
Crazy
Mentely ill
Psychotic
Each page of my sketchbook is a Cove of secrets to those unwilling to explore it, but it is open. Each page is an open encyclopedia, but the font is so tiny that you need glasses to read it. Seeing my heart, my blood, and my guts splattered on the paper is the only way to see me. Really see me. Not only naked but cut open, bleeding out and escaping the body that trapps my heart.
So for those of you who saw my paintings and says that I am crazy
Mentally ill
Psychotic
Maybe you’re right, but without this pain my paintings wouldn’t exist.
Without my empathy some of you may be dead.
And if I took your words to heart, I may be too.
But instead I use your words to write this
And to make every painting that you called
Crazy
Mentally ill
Psychotic