sitting in this small room,
full of canvases,
same facing me some facing to a wall
and cheap bottle of red wine,
in my hand,
drinking again,
trying to find a soul again,
in wine,
in wisdom,
writing poetry again,
because there is nothing to do,
there is no one to talk,
and the ones who is around,
are too sane
that they seem insane,
caring about money and nothing else,
working 12 hours and coming home
and having a cup of tea before bed,
how can they understand my
suffering caused by unable to create,
they dont create,
they are machine like creatures
who came to life by
accident..
and there is no meaning for them,
but money,
earn enough amount to live
and be happy.
im a human being,
im here to create,
and leave something that is mine,
poetry or painting,
i know though,
that they dont go together,
thats why i dont write when i paint,
and i write,
when painting is tired it self.