Bad noise circling the charcoal

Around your thickly lashed eyes

Your desk is as cluttered as

Your head

Graphite scars lining your wrists

Empty sketchbooks waiting

For their own life stories

For the wind's influence to sweep

Lovely things across their pages

You say you're an artist,

But you hurt entirely too much

For your watercolor heart to not be

Don't worry about the past,
They throw their speech at you

But you worry more about the future

And how "art students don't make enough money"

Or

"You'll never amount to anything doing that"

And those thoughts are what



Positively kills you