Just creation

I feel like a mad painter covering my inner walls in black and white and a drop of red as the primitives would paint their caves trying to give a meaning to their world I’d just try to find a meaning for myself… surrounded by these rebellious words that do not obey my will and can not express anything at all, nor beauty, sadness, pain, tearing apart or lust emptied of sense I would turn them to ashes and dust spread them over my own sea without waves words are dead…this heat is like a rush of blood to my head.