I never could quite convince myself
That I would one day be an artist

In my eight year old brain,
I knew artists were ones who
Decorated my school halls
With these portraits of blues and greens

But one day it clicked,
And I realized artists
Weren't just painters

There were some stains
That were left from ink rubbing on fingers
Instead of paint left on foreheads

And my form of portraits
Were conveyed through my mouth

When I mixed words together
They formed crimson,
The color of dry blood after
A long night of bar fights

And they formed cerulean,
The color of oceans and skies
Torn apart by an industrialized era

They mixed to form fuchsia,
The pink that any man or woman should love
A color that was deemed girly
But was bold enough to attract attention

My art came from my mouth
Instead of from a brush
Dipped into a palette

And my body whispered love songs
For the price of 1.99
You could get two poems and
A harsh rebuke of reality

And I knew I was different
For I could make people
Shut the hell up and listen
And see where they were at fault

And it wasn't with a quickly drawn portrait
Of two men fighting side by side
One with a sword
And another with a rock
But it was with a pen
Where both men had nothing
And they were nothing
But just words