I don’t give energy to my heart to spit out a skill that’s supposedly called a talent for an applause, 
I’m not really ego high on what I can do, atleast not no more,
I’m done being an addict, I’m clean, 
I been got off the I’m the shit drug,
but I won’t fool you cause I used to find validation in the way my fingers tips scribbled when my nails doodled a little girl, painting out acceptance, 
possessing timid actions that turned into passionate satisfactions, 
satisfying a broken heart, 
tried to define myself in compliments allowing them to mold my dead sculpture of a soul,
but I know a lot of souls would be surprised if I told them I’m not what I do, 
I can say I’m an artist, 
but would that even be true cause in my growing times filled with depression when I felt helpless,
I had art by my side to give me expression, I’m not no special person I’m just like you, you see when my head was down I had inspiration all around me screaming out my name telling me to explode,
let out what I hold and release it all for the pain in my buried eyes just waiting cry,
I never knew my dark expression could turn into art,
I can’t really call myself the artist with quotation marks cause it was the paper that made me come alive when I was laying dead in my covered shadows, 
Passion is the real artist it’s not me,
the depth of my heart is what makes the authentic art, 
the paper was my escape, 
my isolation,
how I got through life experiences, 
I didn’t care about the painting that I drew with my tears,
but after I smeared the drips by wiping my face on the canvas, 
I took one step and saw a masterpiece,

It was created with pain, 
it wasn’t me, 
it was my heart, 
so never be afraid to cry, 
let your heart tear up, 
make puddles with your rain that you poured cause after your done you’ll be suprised with what created, 
you’ll have that silly expression on your face like “I did that?,” 
So go ahead spill your heart out cause that’s the art.