She wasn’t like others
She wasn’t a normal child
She wasn’t a bad child
She was an artist

The others made fun of her
She drew while the others played
She painted while the others played
She sculpted clay while the others played
She was ridiculed because of this
She was an artist

The others called her names because she was different
Weirdo, freak, retard, looser, reject but never an artist
She became blue, unhappy,dismayed, and miserable
She wanted to end it all because of the others
So she was about to make her last art piece

She grabbed a gun as her paint brush
She sat next to the wall acting as her canvas
She was the paint
And with one quick “brush stroke”
She painted the canvas