Separating an artist from her art

There are a trillion voices in my head. They beseech me every day. From the left. From the right. I go up. I go down. A thousand broken fragments rule me.

Tears of happiness. Tears of joy. I flinch when I step on nails; I flinch when I step on pedestals. All I know are tangents that morph into circles They morph into spirals; streets that go nowhere;

abandoned graveyards;

woods with streams;

dark moonless nights; streets lit with lamposts; into silent feet, accompanied by critters, on dew-covered grass I don't believe in my terrible selfish endeavors. But Bukowski said don't try. And I won't. Sometimes I write. I always fail. Sometimes it bursts out of me. Good or bad. It's not me. It's not mine. These are my words. My thoughts are mine.

But art belongs to no one.