I only applied to one school.

Art school. It was weird, beautiful, and me.

Then some fat ass commercial giant came along and swallowed it whole.

No chewing.

I didn't run away.

I ran right into its throat, thinking maybe I could fight my way through.

Instead, I got chewed the hell up -- ground down, stripped of color, and processed into something unrecognizable. Similar to a garbage disposal.

Then the bastard spat me out into the endless sea of society, like I was just another piece of shit it didn't need.

I floated there for years.

Blind.

Dull.

Trying to fit into boxes I didn't even like, until I couldn't tell if I'd lost my edge or was just buried in it.

One day I woke up and said,

"Fuck this. I'm dope– no cocaine."

The real, blinding, can't-touch-this kind of dope.

So I went back to the basics and started drawing again.

Every line was a middle finger to the giant that tried to digest me.

Every piece was proof they couldn't kill the parts of me that actually mattered.

Now I make my shit my way -- my work isn’t built for approval.

It’s built to slice through the noise.

It’s the kind of art you can find in a store — but never in the aisle you expect.

Every line is still mine. Every piece is still unapologetically me.

I survived the machine, and I came out the other side gold.