You carry your mother's pain.
You bear the burdens of slow death and suicide, somehow, impossibly, with a smile.
You find solace in the vastness of the desert sky.
You escape into silence.
You have stomped all over the bullies of your childhood in heavy black boots and metal and ink.
You have never escaped the bullies of your childhood.
You send out only positive vibes.
Your art is both hindered and helped by your mental illness.
You found yourself when you left this small town behind.
You are afraid that no one will love you, but you're wrong.