Cry of an Artist

They tell me I’ll understand
when I’m older.
That I shouldn’t be an artist.
But
I want to be those crumpled papers
in the corner of my room,
and the late nights I stayed awake
blinking at the moon.
And even though I lack the supplies
and ideas are far away,
I feel artistic blood
running through my veins.
I’m that empty spray can
left in the shadows of the walls
where street art’s been made
but the name’s not there at all.
And I’m that lonely artist
who fears of sticking out
because all the art critics
feel the urge to not speak, but shout.
And I’m that girl standing by the window,
staring in,
wanting those paints and brushes,
pencils and pens,
and the city that hushes
when my art makes its
way in.