Corrupt.

We are not artists, but works of art. It's a small quivering inside; it gains and swells, shaking my frame. I'll become nothing but bones, angrily pointing towards the sky from a dusty grave. I am protective of words; all binge and no purge. My thoughts are worthless as they escape my mouth, blowing away to nothing. All we are is what we leave behind; a jaded legacy of prose and a trail of broken promises and broken hearts. Our world of glass reflects everything back to us as inaccurate portrayals of reality. We are formless creatures in a world of structure we have created out of foolishness. All is full of love, but we're not receiving.

In a flash of inspiration, I will create wonder that flows from my fingertips. This can envelope you in awe, and leave you trembling for the sound. Are you listening?

You gave me a name today. This proclamation, a simple gesture. Just for someone to admit my existence to a world of others suddenly made me feel real. This name, a piece of my reality, suddenly becomes sacred. What does it even mean to me? Another string of words in their worthlessness, precipitously gaining worth.