Poems and Short Stories

Artistry and Me

A great artist am I

Tortured and true

My pen is my sword

My woe to continue

'Tis true, I suppose

Worse could things be

My heart lies broken

In the hand of he who would fix it

Who is the same as he who broke it

My soul wanders, without me

Great places it goes,

To places I would rather be.

Dreams hold no relief

They are the day, over again

Repeating common horrors

There are more monsters and blood, tis true

Therefore no better, you see?

I'm told I must know what my life is meant to be

My whole life, at the mere age of 15

How dare they judge me,

They who make trespasses every day,

Crushing the hope of the future, tis true

They who would deny me myself

Yet ask me to take heed of their self-righteous teachings

Deny me why?

You have not seen me as I truly am

Staring into the black eyes of my demons

As they stare back and laugh

Do I even know who I am?

I suppose it doesn't matter,

The voices in my head know me well enough

So they can tell me better than you.