They call me an artist
but what do they know...
I bleed my soul onto notebooks
scrape my fingers across frets
slide my heart on canvas
and they still call me an artist
when my poems are nothing but hate
misery and death
when my songs mean nonsense mixed with
pain and suffering
when my paintings and drawing are nothing but
scribbles and slashes
and they still call me an artist
why is what I ask everyday
I cant get in the book
cant get on the stage
cant get the decent score of creativness
and they still...
dare call me an artist...
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Insane Writings
Writings, ideas, and anyhting random from me that i feel like posting
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Deafening the Silence
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