Once an artist of harsh colours,
And dark shadowy charcoals,
Drenched in the dirty grey,
Of unfair critique and painful realities,
Constantly beating down on me,
Like late January rain.
Eroded, worn down by the system,
Discoloured by the same demotic, vague behaviour,
That passes as an expert opinion.
My feeling of worth as a person has hit the floor,
And evaporated like a puddle of blood.
I continue to live through this mundane life,
That's as washed-out and hazy as watercolours against pencil-shading,
In a state of drought-like disillusionment,
Waiting for something, any goddamn thing,
To live up to my expectations.