It's an endless existenceMature

I am empty,
I am a prison
of words and thoughts
that never leave,
incarcerating themselves
like shackles-
It sends me spiraling,
though I still,
know my way around.
It's the same road
but a different path,
a different ending.
The same reason behind it,
Always having to find myself,
to collect my lost pieces.
Worried that they're my last words,
my last enscriptions on the world.
It's a constant fear,
not one likely to go away,
especially after six years.
As an artist,
it's who I am.
Hating what I do
and what I am
An endless design,
a never-ending loop
like a bad song
stuck on repeat.
I worry about many things.
About running out of words to say,
running out of people to be,
about the death of my creativity
like its a dying star,
out of time.
These things eat me alive,
they take bits and pieces,
tossing them anywhere else
creating a game of "come find me"
and I'm scared,
that I'll get tired,
I won't want these pieces back-
as if I am not magnetized,
as if I won't gain new pieces
as if it's even close to over yet.
These fears belong to me,
I own them
they do not control me
and they never will.

The End

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