pain

Pain is not a beautiful thing.

It is sobbing at two in the morning when all you want to do is sleep and hoping that no one can hear you.

It is choking on all the words that you cannot speak aloud.

Pain is ugly, and pain is deadly, but pain is raging to be shown.

Yet no one wants to see pain in its true form, for people crave beautiful things.

So instead pain is turned into art. Paint on canvas; ink across pages.

Others covet the talent needed to make these beautiful things, but not the pain necessary to create them.

So the pained continue to make beautiful things, hoping no one will see what they have really become.

A mess.

A monster.