Smudged

I write manic but content My mind is a paragraph My body is bent Depression is slept into silence Though I know good feeling could be violent And so I end a conversation I've had with myself For self-induced pain need not be felt I aim for happiness and a life full of joy Comparing it to a picture of I as a boy Innocent he was, with a sick mother whose illness he judged But now he has felt it, and his self portrait is smudged I pull out a new canvas and fresh paint to play with For in this life, I am still the same person, and so my voice shall state this I loved myself then, and I love myself presently And so I will paint a new face, with colours, bright strokes and beautiful life indefinitely My mother inspires this painting For even as I begin, I feel myself changing

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