Why do I become tone-deaf
to my own imagination?
And a lighthouse to
guide their wings forward.
I sit back and wonder
what would work for me?
Implosion, explosion, exorcism,
Qi wellness, herbal remedies,
gospels, temples, churches,
dopamine, serotonin,
sunlight or moonlight
It has to be somewhere.
The cure.
The cure for not torturing yourself
for weak memory, for recycled art,
for enhanced magical delusions,
for undiagnosed inflated ego.
It resides in me somewhere,
the dark matter of the universe
that makes me unrecognisable
like a flattened dime.
It is somewhere in me,
a really cool colourful crayon box
that loves to paint my bones,
or the walls of my exiled room.
It is there somewhere,
otherwise I’d have to admit.
I was born to create art.
I was born to torture my soul
until it becomes tone-deaf to art.
©kanikachugh