You call this art,
My constant need to write things out
For better understanding, to map them
Out on pages covered in watercolor
Paintings, my use of anything I can get
My hands on to create something
And you look at me in amazement
When I show you what I have done,
When I show you how I took all of my
Emotions and turned them into
Projects that some may find beautiful
But you don’t see the pain behind
Every word I type and each stroke
Of my paint brush or each eraser mark
Littered on illustrations I try to complete
And you don’t see that I try to mend
My broken heart with artwork so it no
Longer bleeds, this papier-mâché
Creation is all that I have that keeps me
Pieced together and
Sound of mind
And you look at me in amazement
And call it art
When really it’s just my attempt
At surviving.

I rearranged my room but I could
Not rearrange the stars I bought a blue
Towel for the bathroom and I tried to
Forget about you but I could not.
I am more snipe when I drink
This is not a drunk poem…lies and lies
And lies. I rearranged my room but I could
Not rearrange you.

It was beautiful and delicate
Precious and scented
I held it carefully in my hand
Its petals lifted and grand

This flower was mine
Simply devine
I would care for it forever
My ambition wasn't clever

For it was not to be
As it stated to decay
Became shriveled and old
Everyone told me to let it go

But to the end I must protect
Its integrity to respect
So in the ground I put to rest
My flower was the best

Till we meet again.
Mum my flower ❤