There are these things inside. Things inside that die, never resurrect. Depletion of ceremonious sanctions bleed. Measurements do not explain or add up the crushing sensations.
Internal shock value, mapping, and stock of what is known verses questioned. Within the cell walls of my skin are weakened immunity, disease, and prosecution. Never a nurse near, never a doctor wise.
Surrounded by visions of past work, other work, other's work, inspiration, and overall a private museum or gallery. Seeing these creative strengths, ideas, and trans formative items gives me less hope instead of more.
These walls are built, more to come. Within my walls I will build until I finally make something worth dying for.
