I hold time in my hand

And feel it clash against my pulse

Which in turn clashes against the music in my soul

Which I can hear clash against the song in my head

That clashes against the beating of a distant drum

And that clashes against the conductor I’m supposed to be following

Who I see clash against the time I hold in my hand

And the endless struggle is to somehow let it all in

And then somehow let it all out

In a way that makes sense to the rest of the world.

But for some reason my art looks like scribbles

And sounds like noise

And translates as gibberish.

But to me it makes sense.

To me it is beautiful.

And sometimes it’s the only way I can release the hurricane inside

Or comprehend the war outside.