I work with pens not paint.
I feel emotions not emotion.
My life is a story not a lie.
And I'll be me even when I die.
I hide in the open not the dark.
I show no pain but show my pain.
My regular face looks as if I'm sad,
As though something is wrong.
I may not be able to speak very well,
but I can write a perfectly punctual sentence.
My soul is on fire, and my heart feels the pain.
If a soul is on fire, my soul and heart are in misery.
Emotions are something I've been getting used to for the past few years.
Four years ago all I felt was emotion.
I am a living contradiction.
I am weird.
I do not always speak in complete sentences or explain myself.
I'm am myself.
Take me as I am, or leave me be.
You may have the freedom to insult me, but quite frankly I have the freedom to tell you to shut up and walk away... And I have the freedom to walk away without saying a word. Don't hurt me please. Because if you pissed me off, all you did was leave a scar on my body. A scar that caused me to tear apart and cry. I am a four year old, and I'm afraid to show the world everything about me because I have been judged. Judgement silenced me, so don't expect me to talk.
My paint is ink in a plastic container.
I am four years old, do not expect me to make sense.
