If you knew my thoughts
Outside of my poetry,
You would be surprised to find
What patient words can be written
By such a troubled hand.
Able to break and bend
The reality of tragedies
Into a work of beauty,
Or turn a helping hand
Into a fist.
I'll write about my scars
Like they're the outcome of bringing
A knife to a gun fight
When it's only you against yourself.
I could tell about the pretty girl
That passed me on the street
And twist it into a love story,
Without having ever asked her name.
An artist can make you fall in love with words
That slip off the tongue as sweet as honey,
And then turn out to be the one that
Shows you how some words can
Sting worse than the back of their hand.
You may see someone desperate for love,
But artists like to play pretend
And you'll never truly know
What lies behind the pen.