The world is my canvas 
And my paintbrush is my wrist 
My blood is the paint 
And I draw everyday

When I look in the mirror
And become disappointed 
I draw a picture consisted mostly of red 
I draw until my head starts to spin

And then I lay down and hide my art supplies so no one knows 
My art is secret 
That will remain untold because no one can keep it 
My paintings offend many
And hurt others

I draw because I can't speak 
Because when I do I'm not heard

The world is my canvas 
And my paintbrush is my wrist 
My blood is the paint 
And I draw everyday

Until the day my mother walked in, in midst of my creativity 
And screamed scared of such connectivity 
She examined my paintbrush 
And made me promise to never paint again 
And I agreed

Until the guy next door called me ugly.