Everything I wrote was an art piece.
The paint spilled out of my heart
and the inspiration came from my soul.
I formed images through color.
I molded mountains with my hands
and I sculpted statues of gold.
But then I looked down.
And the paper was smeared with lead.
My words did not fill the page.
It was ugly
and it sounded ugly too.
I pictured my art as something it was not
and I reaped the consequences
of my folly.