They’re so temptingly pretty,
Why don’t they understand?
Hidden behind pink salmon silk
Straining to break free

People say it pains them
To see me hurt myself
But they don’t know what pain is until they’ have felt this.

Wanting what I cannot have
Because others say, it’s wrong
Knowing not what’s right or wrong
The confusion begins to grow.

Some people say it’s just faze,
Some people say I’m sick
But no one really understands what’s “wrong” with me
And I know why that is.
I don’t have a disease that will just go away,
Pills may make me happy for a while,
But they never fix me…. You cannot fix what is not’t broken

I think were all born as artist but not everyone draws the same way.
Most people use crayons, pens, pencils or felts.
Their canvas is paper or card, and they’re praised for their “good” work.
It is only “good” because it’s “normally”,

But I’m not like that.
My pencil is a knife
My paper is that salmon silk we call skin.
But unlike them, my ink won’t run dry,
And my work will always be frowned upon.
What I do is not what they call art,
It is self destructive, a sign of self-hate to them,
Why are they so blind…?
Why don’t they see…?

Just because they think it’ wrong,
Does’t make it so.
I call it body art
Or a history written in red
Written for all the world to see,
Because I don’t know how to say this
As they always say
Action speak louder than words


 
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