Am I an artist?

Am I an artist,
or a peddler of pain,
are the words I write genuine,
or distasteful and rotten?

Do I speak of humanity,
or wallow in desolation,
stirring trails of anguish,
disturbing the calm waters?

I wear a crown of an author,
with crumpled pages in my hands,
used to wipe away blood,
from my self-inflicted wounds.

Do I explore the human condition,
or do I exploit misery,
are my verses inquisitive,
or are they sadistic pleasure?

I am no artist,
I'm a peddler of pain.