I romanticize my suffering,
And then I call it art.
Pathetic is now pretty,
Because it is from the heart.
Cutting words are poetry,
Because now they rhyme .
Beats that flow perfectly.
Words that read in time.
Bleeding is now beautiful.
The pain to be a creator.
This is my written world,
And I am the dictator.
And so I will write them,
To any who will listen.
But little do they know,
The words I weave are my prison.
By the Brooke 