They say you make your best masterpieces when you ya self are in pieces
Scrambling to try to put together something that may seem right
Cause ya mind left you a long time ago  and
You just need something
To tell you
That you just might
Still be sane
And the same people ask you
What was your inspiration
And you lie
And say it was a field of daisies with the Rays of the sun power powering down  that made you paint these sunflowers
But in all actuality me Van Gogh
You painted these cause they had the color yellow
And each time you forced yourself to swallow
That color
You thought
It took away some of the gloom
That with said bottle of paint
It would brighten your soul
Though
It slowly killed you
But perhaps that was the plan after all
All, the time
I am asked
What
Is my
Inspiration
For the poems I write
How can I sit back and type or lay paper to the graphite and ignite a feeling within the very depths
Of ones mind
I used to lie
Tell em something really profound
Like
Well I'm I am a product of two-parent home with five siblings in one apartment with two bedrooms
But I found
The real answer
The lead
Atringency and metallic
Taste
Etching permanent curves
Onto my tongue
Down my throat
Suffocating me
Slowly
Which is why I sometimes have to open my mouth wide and
Speak deeply
from my
diaphragm
Pausing
As often
As
Possible
Finding some type of
Scape route
For oxygen to
Slither threw
You
see
I've found the real answer
As to why
I
Write
I
Write
Because I don't have any yellow
Paint .