"Brushed by Pain: The Art Beyond the Canvas"
Certainly, here's the improved punctuation of the poem:
"So when you saw me painting on my skin with the knife,
You called it art,
While I was fighting for life.
Just so you know, they don't sell art like this in a museum,
Because they know it would remind them of freedom.
So, would you call it worthy for display,
Or just another pain, disarray?
All the music that entertains the heart
Is the music of blood and bone that fell apart.
And the beautiful flower that one plucked
Grew over someone's grave, always death and never luck.
You sell the emotion, you sell the skin you paint blood on the canvas and sell the art.
Art was never meant for the economy.
This is where the world and I fell apart."
