Broken Dreams.

Raped reality; a patchwork of broken dreams [Vivid experience turned colorful collage; expensive drapes ripped at each seam]-- made up of fresh mistakes and worn discoveries: the birth of a master piece.
I try to master peace within the flicks of my wrist and express the anger and sorrow from the motions of my fist:
Peep my visuals.
A gang of art a product of assaulted life. Battered feelings. Old and fresh wounds serve as the paint, my tools. 
The abuse, my muse.
Every bit of pain my inspiration, so I just can't seem to get enough 'cause art is my passion.
Each piece a piece of one of my many dreams.
An abundance of what if's and could-have-been's.
Never leading to a "when,"
just an "I wish."
So I whisk away at my canvas. My life for what it is; my reality.
And create art.
Stroking away with the fibers of my heart.
Bit by bit [failure by failure], putting together quite a masterpiece.
My wall of patched broken dreams.

-Tash