Me, but not Myself, nor I

I feel worthless. 

I feel stupid. 

I feel useless. 

I feel nothingness overcoming me and eating all of my 'goodness'. 

Despite how hard I try and fight, it's all for not. 

The change of seasons that kills the trees, in turn kills my spirit and traps me in a hibernation of depression.  

Frozen, in a self made tomb of self hate, as fragile as glass, and sharp as a knife. To insure to keep any possibility of help far from reach. 

Till spring can spring me from this morose penitentiary; I will be stuck with this sick and demented version of myself.

Art aspects

Will She, that's struggling with schizophrenia and her art, which she see's as the only way into her heart, ever be herd or understood by thous deemed by society as normal that has condemned her or us or me or we as okay to be free?

Instead of joked about or looked at in a different aspect like some dumb bloke.

There IS power and beauty behind my art. If you can't see it you are simply blind to genius, abstract, innovative, dreams.