If you see graffiti, it was probably me.
As much as it disappoints for you to see.
I never planned for brick walls to be built.
Bricks because I carry my heavy pain and my guilt.

Made from dirt and heart of stone.
Instead of people, I'd rather be alone.
And like a storm taking over a city,
I fall in frustration and people pity me.
 I snap at people who witness my misery!
I cover the walls with paints and,
somehow, people call it art.
I have feelings eating me and I know that with them I must part.

I'll paint over them to hide my mistakes.
Paint pretty pictures, yet you think I'm a fake.
I will argue,
it's nothing personal, so please don't take it to heart.
But how can I fake being an artist, when I'm breaking apart?