The earth with out art is just eh,
and the words I am spewing is music to the ears of all who hear,
poetry is my art,
and it is the art of the broken,
the art of the hurt,
the art of all of us who need to be heard.
Art is the building block of everything in existence,
there is art in the wind and in the clouds,
there is art in your hair and your clothes,
there is art everywhere.
When you can no longer hear the poetry of the world,
and see the art in the earth,
it is then when you lose hope,
you don't see the leaves cascading down in the fall like rain in the spring and snow in winter,
and you don't hear the symphonies of the cars passing by,
and the whistling of the wind whispering to you,
telling you about the beauty the world has to offer.
You see nothing,
and all you hear is silence,
because someone killed your art,
they murdered your poetry in cold blood,
and in the process made you draw blood,
they broke you down with every painful word,
and they chipped away with razor blades,
they tried to make your art disappear,
they tried to cut your poetry out,
but they just just cut you up.
When they tell you your poetry is nothing special,
and your art is just eh,
they are slowly attacking it, attacking you,
your music and art and poetry is you,
when they **** it,
they are killing little pieces of you.
But it is your art,
it is extraordinary,
and your poetry has little pieces of you in it,
so it must be special,
if you let those parts be killed there is just less of you to love,
because someone will think your art is amazing,
and your poetry is genius,
and if you let those pieces be killed and you be scarred,
there will be a little bit less of you for them to love.