Reality is fatal,
but only a small percentage overdoses
it can suck the life from you
leave you tired, depressed
an empty shell.
So my hobbies are my drugs,
my imagination my dealer
We meet not in secret dark alleyways,
but rather on the bus, in the shower,
during a particularly boring lecture.
Instead of crying, I write a poem,
watch a sad movie to let the tears flow.
Instead of yelling, I splatter paint,
carve soap to let out the rage.
Instead of bleeding, I let the words and the doodles and the singing break free.
While some call it daydreaming,
and others call it “escapism,”
I call it survival
Some aren’t as clever as I
Some let reality get to them
It breaks them down, drives them insane,
sucks away their empathy like a vampire
until they too are the undead
So if you want to truly damage me,
don’t call me names, pick fights or spread gossip.
Instead, break my pencils, spill my ink,
tear the paper and cut out my tongue.
Without my paper life raft, I will drown.
Without my creativity, I am nothing.
For I am a Creator, but without my creation,
what will become of me?