I barricaded myself in my room again,
and I cried and cried,
just like yesterday.
And the day before that.
I used my razor sharp paint brush,
and crimson red paint flowed from my arms,
the kind of crimson red that comes from within.
The next morning, I pull my long-sleeve shirt over my arms
that are now laced with new artwork.
I am plagued with despair and anguish.
But as time went by,
I found my artwork becoming less and less appealing.
The next morning, I pull my short-sleeve shirt over my arms,
ready for the world to see what the faded white that is left of my artwork.
I am left with my faded artwork,
and I switched my paint brush with crayons.
I am embedded with happiness.
It took time.
But as I have learned,