Three letters, one word: "End."

I've run out of ingredients. But why continue? If it always ends in flames, why not throw it? It tastes bitter, and I despise bitterness.

Letting go isn't wrong, is it? Perhaps by releasing it, everything will come to an end.

Four letters, one crucial word: "Lost."

It's not here; stop searching. Everything is cloaked in darkness, much like life itself.

What if I told you I channel my emotions through art? I appreciate the praise, but it doesn't alter my penchant for depicting grim scenes-red splatters, cryptic monochrome.

This isn't poetry, nor a vent.

It's not an explanation for my odd behavior. Nothing here holds significance. I'll cease speaking plainly.

Blurred.