I have it.
you have it.
picasso even had it. so that makes me feel a little better.
I'm a stress case and sometimes I worry it will take over my life.
it hovers and comes crashing down when I least expect it.
damaging the pretty blue eyes and the delicate curls. the nails you paid too much for and the worrisome mothers that only want the best for you.
it's in the smoke crawling towards you and it's taunting you relentlessly with all of the words you wish you said and the songs you wish you sung.
but now it's too late and you've already used all of your second chances.
Cruel and unforgiving, the fear of inadequacy whispers in your ear and his and theirs too.
because its all including and leaves no one empty handed,
only empty hearted.
I've already told you this but you're still not helping with my inadequacyaphobia.
even if it IS self-diagnosed.
You can tell me all you want but the smoke has already reached my lungs and wouldn't it be ironic if Picasso died of lung cancer?
