Feeling more than what can be stored.
Not creating, the sweet winds of creativity
are harsh, cold and sad.

In the middle don't like to stand.
Too much voices crawling on me.

Where are the ways of joy,
for those of art are distorted
by no given space nor time.

Anticipation struggles inside.

Knowledge stuck
and beautiful metaphors
get life dark forms.

A silence of perverse comfort.

Entangled by unknown lights:
who am I?