¿La escritura y el dibujo son compatibles?

Hope
Hope,
I’ve hoped since I was a child.
From warm cuts,
razors peeling my brain away,
I wished to leave my dirt
with each bit of hair.
Anyone with a brain
wouldn't seek out the blade,
But beneath the sharpness,
I see a prettier truth.
Deeper it dug,
and deeper I hoped
to bleed out my flaws,
to rid of my impecfection,
to rid of me.
Tell me, please,
In my naive hope,
we leave sense of soul,
trading ourselves
for a beauty
we were never meant to want.
Parte 2: Dibujo inspirado en texto

Spill
Even when choking, you try to breathe.
Below those wires that hang around your neck, you try to breathe.
And when you looked at the noose,
you tried to breathe.
My mind was tangled, suffocating under the weight of confusion,
Trying to escape, I dug a grave for myself,
choking as I struggled to break free.
I tried to translate chaos into art, to hide inside its cave,
But when your hands are tied, you can't save yourself.
I want to understand how my mind works,
Why curiosity burns like fuel—
Did Shakespeare look out his window,
Watching the world burn to make himself burn too?
Is it human to crave the wrong,
And find what we’ve been told not to?
Of course, if we want to know if we like the taste of a fruit,
We have to bite the bait first,
Knowing the sweetness hides the hook,
And it hurts us in the end.
Like a painting, we need time to dry,
Easily destroyed with a droplet of water, an accidental spill.
A child exposed to violence has tangled wires in their mind,
Remembering the anger in their parent’s eyes,
just to grow up and spill on someone else.
It's misery in its purest form.
A soul that has so much potential, drowning in illness,
Trying to climb out, proving itself useless,
It only saw defeat.
I wasn’t broken.
I wasn’t evil.
I was simply confused, vulnerable,
yearning for meaning.