Yes! I'm a prostitute,
Yes, I'm poor,
Yes, I'm unpredictable,
For I am the painters paint,
The writer's pain.
I became famous as I was locked in their judgement,
Clothe in their nakedness,
No one cared of my secret cries,
I hid my pain in my smile as days past by
For all I cared for was fending for my little kid,
Giving him life out from hypocrisy,
I do things for my right
So you can go to hell I care little of what you feel,
You don't define me, no one can,
For I just want to be heard.
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