They all said that art was wierd,

So she laughed,

And rubbed off the paint stains on her hand.

She never told them what class she had fourth block,

And always hid herself in the crowd.

How could she tell them that art was her passion,

Without being looked down upon?

They never came to her house,

Because her artwork covered the walls,

And instead of flowers, paint brushes filled vases.

They never questioned why,

Or asked what she did,

Other then smile the empty smile,

And hide the paint stains on her fingers.

On the days she couldn’t take it,

She locked herself in her room,

And gripped a paintbrush with her hidden conflict,

To paint away her fear.

Some days she cried in the bathroom,

Wanting only to have a paintbrush in her hand.

And sometimes she whispered, quietly all to herself,

“I wonder who I am.”


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