𝕬 𝕾𝖆𝖉 𝕻𝖔𝖊𝖙 𝕴𝖓 𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊

Streaks of Black

I painted my nails black,
because I heard rock stars do that.
Took a bit of edge, a splash of bold,
a quiet rebellion I wanted to hold.

Stained my fingers with ink,
because that's a poet's link.
Smudged lines and scribbled scars,
pouring myself into words like falling stars.

Pulled my hoodie close, hid in the crowd,
felt my heart beating fierce, quiet but loud.
Carved my own path, strayed from the norm,
in streaks of black, in a poet's form.

These little marks I carry, my armor and art—
just a canvas for an uncertain heart.
Rock stars and poets, I borrow and blend,
finding myself in the ink and the trends.