A Pricey Crap

You didn't hear my songs even when I sung it obstreperously.
You didn't see my tears even when I wept in front of your eyes.
You were neither deaf nor were you blind.
Though, to me you are kind,
that you never bothered.
A painting is a painting if its painted in blood or
if its about crap.
Then why did you call it hauteur when I tried to paint my life?
There may be no tunes of lullabies in my songs
There may be no forms of intoxication in my stories.
But what I learned is life and what I learned is from pain.
It is chronic and contagious that you cant just ignore it