one thing that pains me is 

     when i was younger, brighter, and less full of myself 

             was when she used to radiate light and everything pure in this world 

                    as her concentrated face would approach the paper 

                           with glee and her eyes would shine and glisten

and sunlight would drip from them, 

      creating something absolutely beautiful, 

              and all she needed to make that happen was a pen,

                     and she would always ask me,

                            the smallest act would create the biggest fire.

what i do not understand,

       is the way people like her, artists, essentially,

              are treated the way they are, as though it's not a job,

                       as though they will not earn much,

                                 as though art as a subject is not obligatory yet every other is.

at least, that's what i felt when she spoke to me with such distaste about it,

      eyes dripping with sadness because imagine being told that your passion 

is just. a. hobby.

why is that when happiness blooms in her, it must be crushed under dirty boots of the fallen?

why is that her passion is not enough? is creating other worlds not enough?

is having the ability to express yourself with colors not enough?

- just a hobby