I am the girl that protested the world with art,
it's too much pressure and I don't know if I can take it.
As I draw I hear a man reciting a poem;
I noticed that he talks with gloom coating his every word when most poets, gloomy or not, try to sound uplifting.
He talks about depression and abuse and I feel like I am actually there;
he swore that from that day forward he would never design an instrument meant to punish a child for as long as he lived.
This place he talks about sounds familiar,
I've heard both good and bad things about it but in the end I feel that it's important for me to go and see it myself but I never fly, I don't trust pilots... it's like handing your life over to a suit.
He speaks with such passion and I hope that one day I can be as talented as that.
His talent makes me want to punch someone in the face because I don't have it, I don't even feel bad about it.
I hold up my drawing and inspect it,
it looks as if the image was taken from the droplets around me and stretched onto a blank canvas.
I close my notebook and shove it back into my satchel,
hidden in darkness but holding treasures better than what we can create above ground, my art is sacred.