Peeca Mark

ode to WASTE OF PAINT...

sometimes i feel like the books i read and the poetic observations i make on the world around me are a pathetic compensation for my own lack of self-identity.
Everything I make is trite and cheap and a waste of paper, of ink, and time. In the end my art envelopes my being like a malicious blanket trapping my every escape route inside this marry-go-round identity quest.
You can see me fighting to breathe but i never get out.