My Art isn't Beautiful

My art isn't beautiful,

It's a curse.

When do I create?

When I hurt.

Who has the time?

The dedication?

Only the broken,

The beaten and worn.

I labour away,

Though battered,

I stay

Persistent.

But only because

What else do I have

But to leave a ghost of

My existence.

It's not until after

I let it all out

That you appreciate

What it's about.

And even then

You cannot know

What it took

For me to grow.

My art isn't beautiful,

It's a curse.

Why do I create?

Because I hurt.

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