Pride,
In the art from which my life may stem.
In the music that flows through my mind,
Day and night, with no respite,
Through the haze and smog of the world.

The things I hold onto to keep me going,
That people mock or condemn.
All the while my soul is growing,
And art is such the fragile gem.

Pride,
In the words that come from my pen,
In the spontaneous moments of inspiration,
Raw and pure, and unflinchingly sure,
Born from the troubles of my mind.

The escape from all the pointless judges,
Who label us what they think we are.
But the outsider still struggles and trudges,
To try and see us from afar.