Artist

I wish I could draw a picture of how I would present a self portrait.
A hollowed out cantaloupe on the back right side of my skull; a toilet paper tube as my right eye, a piece of rebar through my neck; a giant corkscrew as my left shoulder, an overstuffed sausage casing as my left forearm and wrist; an exploding pot bellied stove as my abdomen, a gnashing set of gears as my right knee; a railroad spike jammed in my right hip; and a bullet hole right in the middle of my forehead.
But, alas, I cannot draw, I cannot paint, I cannot sketch, I cannot sculpt, I cannot carve.  I'm imprisoned by two dimensions.
Ineffable visions flattened into unremarkable words, squeezed into a bland palette of sentences that tell no tale of profound expression.
Absurd insight, ignorant observation, futile perception.  Exposed, at last, as imperfect; exposed, at last, as a fraud.  Exposed, at last, as human.