I'm a spider. Out stretched legs into many, many things, avenues. My body moves as if mechanic, robotic. I've a talent of art, weaving a home from webs in intricate patterns but with every one person that appreciates it there's a hundred, a thousand, with pitchforks and torches. I'm ashamed to say I would march with the majority. I've put a price tag on my voice, my words, my writings, my soul. I could not give you anymore of me without splitting my skin and using my blood as ink but it seems so amount of me is good. I'm a toxin, a poison, awaiting your dose of an antidote but I've grown impatient. One can only carry so much disheartened. A part of me is loud, it screams, you don't deserve my creations. another part is just confused that with all I do, every step is a stumble when I use to be so sure footed. failure is a needle and with one, the first, it stings, the second, stings until eventually it doesn't but it doesn't stop there, no, the more you are poked and prodded and stabbed your veins begin to collapse and you struggle to find where to shot up next. im strung out without the high, the high in my future is a suspension bridge and as much as I'd like to think with all I've created, surely, at least, it will be appreciated when I'm gone but I'm awakening to the realization that not even in death will I be loved, will what I create be useful, will anything Ive done matter. even at what I think I do best I'm trailing off.