Listen Donald Trump

You call me Hitler

just because I paint too well,

as if talent were a war crime

and my calm were a battlefield.

But listen —

I don’t need your labels

or your bargain‑bin philosophy.

I drag my demons by the throat

and make them sit still

while I turn their shadows into art.

You mock? Cute.

I’ve survived sharper tongues

and colder rooms

than your watered‑down bravado.

I’m the storm that never asks permission.

I’m the pulse you feel before the earthquake hits.

I’m the kid who learned early

that silence can be a weapon

and creativity — a loaded gun

pointed straight at every fear

you thought would break me.

So stand back.

I paint my truth in broad strokes,

and if that scares you —

good.

It means it’s working.