Smear the ink that spills from the wounds you left me with
Across my canvas, suddenly, I'm considered an artist
Kudos to me for writing about all my heartaches and heartbreaks
It's my only relief from breathing in tainted oxygen
Lungs half filled with other people's *******
I'm going to be a ballerina when I grow up, I used to say
Instead, I find, my talent lies in laying my emotions out for display
What I always dreaded I would become, I became
Just another poet, writing tirelessly about pain