I sit staring at the screen that has become my life,

Numb bony fingers typing away, creating the work others call art.

Words flowing on the page, coming together in beautiful ways no one else can create,

Constant critiques thrown like daggers, puncturing my soul.

Made to bring me down you help me grow, bandages covering up the lacerations.

The words grow from the page coming to life,

People think we lock ourselves in our rooms just writing, but we make art.

Down grading us if you don’t like the way we choose to create,

Saying rappers and rockers don't feed the soul.

You'd rather us talk about the earth than our struggles and our deep lacerations.

Depressed hipsters hoard into underground cafes, explaining the struggles of life,

Accumulations of words, painting a picture only some people would consider art.