Such a long list has been forming;
Containing all these selves dividing into ideas that i’m not welcoming of.
The many things I’ve found amongst the blistering tapestry.
A source that grows continually.
Onto me; into me; over me.
Things I no longer yearn for.
If God is a creator, what does that make artists?
What’s being given to another by making an artistic statement?
The overwhelming possibilities that keep piling up.
When we deceive ourselves into believing;
Oh, insidious nature of illness,
Taking away the very things
Essential to relief.

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