The Addict.

The Addict.

Numb knuckles, pork meat pink.
Hugged by vulnerable dry white layers of skin.
No stamina,
It falls upon any friction.
Though this weak state of a fist, he continues kissing his knuckles with the walls of an empty dull room.
Over and over again
untill feelings can no longer be known to him.
Though this weak state of a fist,
he continues hitting his arm to the wall,
with every hit pain is stronger,
determination to feel more intensifies.
Not knowing the reason, he proceeds,
viewing himself as a lunatic for being eased by such deed.
Fully aware of the consequences,
but only on apprehending the end-result,
on realizing that he may not be able to make art properly again
- the only thing that gives him satisfaction and peace of mind- he pauses,
and the numbness of the damage sink in. Then,
he decides that he no longer care.
His artwork seems void to him,
they lack meaning and authenticity.
He can't see them through the eyes of his younger self anymore.
So he asks himself
"What's the difference a damaged hand would do anyways?"