I know I haven't posted in a while but here's a poem-ish
I used to be an artist
I would paint beautiful paintings in red
My muse was the voices
My tools were silver
I would fight to get my tools
I had to
They didn't like my art
They didn't understand
My art was amazing
It was beautiful
My art was my escape
Sometimes I miss painting
But then I think
They told me not to
My art is forbidden
I'm not supposed to paint anymore
They said my art wasn't beautiful
They said painting was bad
I didn't get what was so bad
Painting always helped me feel better
Why was that so bad
-JT
YOU ARE READING
Done
Randomrandom thoughts from my depressed suicidal brain This is my way of coping. I'm learning to rant on wattpad instead of cut, binge purge...etc. Also, most of the time when I'm writing this stuff I'm upset and have no regard for spelling and grammar ch...
