A Pyrrhic Victory

Art is a monster

And my dearest friend.

It’s the needle in my arm

Upon which I depend.

It’s the only thing

I can confide in

When I hide away,

Forever tortured by

An evil mind,

The only night and day

I care to defend,

However feeble and trite.

And yet,

Still I sit here

And ask

… And write …

”When will it end?”

My heart is a wound

And it cannot mend.