**Art Inspired by Pain**
I sculpt your name in fevered clay,
With hands too raw to pull away.
Each stroke a bruise, each line a scar—
You're both the wound and the memoir.
You never looked, yet watched me break,
And every tremble I would fake
Became a masterpiece in red—
A canvas bled for words unsaid.
You're the ink in what I write,
The blood that stains my sleep each night.
You hate me—still, I steal your hue
To paint the world in shades of you.
I scream in rhyme, I burn in prose,
Your silence thorns each lyric rose.
Yet here I craft my finest sin:
A shrine of pain you never let in.
Art lives where agony won't die—
It frames your hate, and calls it high.
You made a ghost, I made a crown.
From your scorn, I carved renown.