Batman Endgame

if i was a painter
in which each stroke
my brush  makes
every mistake would be erased
 
as if i was a god
a stratigist in a lab 
coat
 
i calculate every move
i plan out every mistake
 
i hear you breath
i watch you sleep
the skelitions in your closet
are the demons you believe
 
and i dream
as an artist
to seek where
your heart is
 
the hardest part
between determining 
whether or not isolation
is the key to solving loneliness
 
is the fine line 
between what really
matters
 
and what the f**k matters
if the odds are never in the favor
of the triumphant
 
the artist
 
he rips out
each page
as he looks
at his age
 
and he wonders
once again
why he must live
his life in the shadows
 
as they paint a portrait
is he insane?
 
where is my mind?
i try
to realize
why i
should thy
do i really f*****g matter?
 
the f*****g bullshit agony
he opens his eyes to reality