I am far from beautiful.
I am the silhouette of the beautiful mind in which I curse, simply out of spite.
I am the dry bones that rattle in this flesh, just waiting to shed its lively essence.
I am that tape recorder that's in constant play, reminded of how I'll never get there from here.
But you shake me off, you pour the words of spite out, and soak in the words of love.
You water these dry bones and bring them back to life.
You no longer let the tape recorder play madness, only poetry.
I am filled with the deepest thoughts, and what it is that tries to push you out.
You are the one who sent your son, so that I may exist in peace, and so this pure mind that I've ruined may be free.
You are the reason that my insanity no longer has a home.
You are the reason I am a living and breathing masterpiece.
I may be far from beautiful, but you have made me a work of art.