I can dream of a story,

write it down

and they call it poetry.

I can paint my heart

on a melanite canvas

And they call it art.

I can sing of my demons,

dress them up like angels.

Write their whispers into notes

Make harmonies of their laughter.

And they call it a lullaby,

as they sing it to their children.

I can dance through my pain like a storm of emotions,

at war with my rationality.

As they watch my emotions spread like wildfire across my skin.

When I am done they clap as though I am not burning.

I can scream life into the pages of a book.

Make the comas every heartache,

Every Space Between the Lines a sign of happiness.

On the last page there is a period,

it does not signify the end

but a new beginning.

They call it a autobiography

But talk as though my life has already ended.

With words of rhythm

I speak of a world

Where:

My dreams are stories

they praise as poetry.

My heart an artwork

displayed in glass.

My demons sowed into a song

and portrayed as angels.

My emotions turned into a dance of destruction

as they blindly clap at its 'beauty'.

My life a ballad of words

sung onto pages forgotten in time.

They call this spoken word but do not listen to the words.

As I awake screaming I realize,

It was all but a nightmare.

I turn it into a movie

And they call it a 'Masterpiecec'

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