The words spoken were short and few,
But the wounds they formed cut deeper then you knew.
The residue left started to fester and rot.
And the butterflies in my stomach transformed into knots.
They say it’s alright,
I say it’s okay.
I wonder for once what I did anyway.
To provoke such,
Words
to form into knives.
They penetrate my skin,
but I will still strive.
In the dark of the moment I’ll make art from my pain,
Even if my confidence may never be the same.
I’ll come back STRONGER.
I’ll come back BOLD.
Willing to tell the story that needs to be told.
Yes, the cuts were deep,
But skin grows back thick.
I’ll never forget the words that clung to me.
They stick.
After an awkward, and also fairly shocking encounter with someone I considered to be a friend at the time, I was devastated at the way I was treated. But, none the less I've always been a positive person, so I decided that instead of wallowing in despair, I'd buck up and create something. If your art is not used to transform feeling, then there'd be a lot more sadness in this world.
