Put the gun to my heart,

and blow out these images, my art.

These pictures, these scenes; these people,

all constantly pounding at my temple.

-

They are screaming to be let out.

-

My words, my drawings; my creations are inept.

At describing these things I'll never forget.

My creations are screaming to be let out of my head.

Rather than face their screaming, I'd rather be dead.

-

I do not have the key.