Self Portrait

A dark brown container

Reeks of birch and rot.

A rustic setting for an atelier,

The artist dwells within

Composing pieces of societal disapproval,

Working against the natural order

Or with the entropic.

Paintbrushes dry on the wise window sill

Leaking their creativity onto the uncaring floorboards.

Songs of introversion ring through the listening walls as

The bloated ceiling is dripping with self loathing and contemplation

For an artist is trapped in woe,

Troubled and alone

Hibernating in what seems like an eternal slumber

But only lasts days at a time

Brought about by the inner machinations

Of a mind so cynical

The pinnacle is here

At the lowest point of living

Hidden beneath the rocks

Like maggots on a rainy day.

Everyday it rains

And so every night it pours,

The artist sees this and secludes himself moreso

Withdrawn from action

Seeking passive moments in creation.