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,
lost,
though I still,
somehow,
know my way around.
It's the same road
but a different path,
a different ending.
The same reason behind it,
everytime.
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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