This one doesn't have a title

Sitting alone in a room, surrounded by white walls. Before me, a blank canvas begging for something to happen. In my hand, a pen. My brush. I begin to paint. Beautiful words paint a picture, pouring out of my mind and onto the paper, in fractured pieces of my soul. What's left is a vision into a world of chaos and torment. A young man, kept prisoner in his own mind. His only escape being the words he so desperately pours onto paper. Inked in time, never to disappear. As much as these words provide release, they paint a grim reminder of what lies at the end of his last sentence.