I am an artist,
Though I cannot paint.
I cannot write a novel.
I cannot act in a film.

Yet I am an artist,
My paintbrush is my razor.
My story is told through my tears.
My film is life and my smile-
is the main character.

I am an artist,
An artist with a dark truth.
A hidden story,
And a made up happy ending.
I am an artist,
An artist that has ran out of space-
for my crimson creativity.
An artist that has cried my last story;
An artist that has pretended for the last day.

I am an artist,
An artist who has done my time,
And has been beaten by sadness.
I am an artist,

An artist who’s art is not appreciated.
An artist who never reach the height of- worlds noticeability,
An artist whose art will die as I do.

I was an artist,
Until my art took over me,
And now – I exist not.

You are the call I wish to never get
Yet long for everyday
For as long as I live

In this place we call home I swear none of us have the right morals to look up to and we’re all on social media wishing for acceptance in the for of likes and followers and views and friends on snapchat. In this place we call home were banning people from their dreams and are taken away from their families and are laughed at because of their color on the outside and not by the inside on the space of their hearts and is separated by who they pray to and how they celebrate their life. In this place we call home, we all have messed up minds.

How can you go from telling me you love me to not responding to any of my calls?
How can you tell me you need me then say you're going to a party and there's no guarantee you won't **** someone else?
How can you say all the things you do and still get mad at me for getting hurt?
Do you even want me?
Am I just a convenience?
I knew it was too good to be true...