My life is a canvas, and I am painted the colors of a perfect storm.Blue when sadness is pumping through my veins,And red when all of the damage is done.There is nothing but extreme highs and lows.It is like the dead poets society.I am not upset I am morose.I am not angry I am furious. These are not tears;This is the tsunami Washing joy off of the streets once filled with evanescent laughter,And that is not a smile;It is the brilliant rays of light reigning as the epitome of every chromatic hue. I am not tired,I am an overused machine function that clinks and clatters after every performance;Sawing down my Brittle bones. I am not lost.I Am walking down an open road that was never mine to begin with.I am not compassionate.I am the tender warm embrace of a rising sun.I am not pitiless.I am the product of a society who capitalizes on the insecurities of others.I am not broken.I am a poet. Watch me as I douse my paper in a sea of lovely words;A black inked blanket of illusion.For here I am allowed to share the things not necessarily talked about,But only as long as I am capable of depicting it as a picture of unwavering dark beauty.There is no beauty to be found in this darkness. I am a poet,And the depth of my words bleeds blacker with every faithful sweep of my swollen wrist. I am a poet,But you still only see me the way you wish to see me."In the simplest terms, in the most convent definition". Feeling far to much for far to little.I am a deathly concoction of all of the humanity Inside of you that you have been taught to dismiss.So I hope you don't mind that this rhythm of pouring pumped emotions can not leak an ending to this deceit.