Do people really like me for me,
Or is it just out of pity?
The rejects pity
For being smart,
Fat,
Handicapped.
Is their sympathy real,
Or is it synthetic love because Im abnormal?

Do people really like my art
Because it moves them,
Or because I have terminal cancer?

You know I say,
“Be honest, be brutal, tell me the truth,”
But all I get is lies.
And Im tired of it
Tired of this ****
Exhausted of carrying this false motivation
Worn down by all this cheering
When its undeserved

So please don’t look at me
But in me
Don’t look at my stub of an arm,
Or dent in my nose
Look at my soul
Which I spill for you
On this cheap paper
So everyone can receive
What I spree