Though my soul began to float away,
and my eyes could not stop shedding.
There was still something left to convey,
to leave unsaid would be regretting.

I started to create.
To save my soul.
I started to create.

From deep inside, I pulled out whatever came.
For a time, it was fantastic.
But as they say of the brightest flame,
It puts out quick, orgasmic.

Unfortunately, in the end, it was left unsaid and regretted.
I couldn’t save him.
I couldn’t save me.

What use is it to pick up a brush, anyway?