Poem by me : Theory of Creativity

I'm an artist.
I'm valued as long as I create.

I've seen others receive
Flowers just for existing,
While I find myself
Slowly sinking.
Sinking into my tunnel
Of fears that take forms.
Forms with hands.
Hands with sharp claws.
Claws breaking into my skin.
Skin that shows no signs,
Of how they tear me day out, day in.
I battle my self-doubt,
To be deemed eligible,
I write how I feel
To not be invisible.
Like an addict I weave words
For the next jolt of admiration.
To hit that high others get
From shallow validation.
I'm strong but not everyday;
I sit here, defenseless,
In wait of the vile creatures
That crawl into this fortress
That I've built for myself.
My armour is worn out.
Should I cry for help?
I can hear their hunger.
I will mould my misery—
Into what you call poetry—
As they drag me down under,

As my lungs clog and
I asphyxiate.
As I said, I'm an artist.
I'm valued
As long as I create.