Poetry by a gay depressed bitch

Just some 3 a.m. thoughts about my tupid ass life. Maybe you can realte to them <3

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Her canvas was her body and her paint brush was a razor blade. She covered her art so that no one could see work till it's done. And no one noticed. And nobody knowed if it was dedicated to them. In every line she draw there was a message for the people that inspired her. In every line she draw was a silent scream for help she would never say out of her mouth. In every line she draw were all the emotions she pushed down for so long. Because just the lines made her believe that she was alive. Some people scream, some cry and some just push it down but people like her draw there own masterpiece with there pain. And at some point only the death could make her feel alive and she drawed with the other angels in her heaven.

She was an artist and no one cared about her art till it was too late.