There has always been love. You need to understand why.

I ripped my own shadow apart and replaced it with something lesser. 
Imprisoning the leftover paint on the brush into water. 
Someone with a pale heart with no capacity to love another.
Someone who can't write, draw or paint without being negatively inspired. 
So I shattered the expectations of myself and created a state of retreat. 
Creating a world where no one will see me.
Somewhere the noise could never reach me. 
A world where my art can exist without being tested, reviewed, or perceived. 

"You suffer both fates."

Yeah, but two dead-end lives won't make a life worth living. 
Strangely though I am still living for the day that I start loving. 
But my lack of love won't define the life that I've chosen. 
Perpetually waiting, but I don't regret the time lost and I won't accept being loved less. 
So here I am peering over the precipice. 
Stuck in my own way battling the sadness. 
Desperately forcing painted words onto pages of books that refuse to teach me what true art is. 
I'm left living a life that's unsure of what love is. 

"It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done." 

I drew blood just to feel the electricity. 
I draw in black and white just to fuel the negativity.
Darker shades of blacks and greys eclipse me. 
Show me how to navigate these depths of madness.
Teach me how to paint a life that matches the corresponding canvas. 

"I dream my painting and I paint my dream." 

But when I dream I only perceive my art form in emotions. 
How do I paint what I felt but never saw? 
With gaps between each plot point, I'm filling the empty space with empty love and ideas I could never draw.