Fluffy, flowy, delicate: their short, ebony hair framed their porcelain face which was scattered with acne. You would become mesmerised by their beautiful freckles that tracked all over their forehead and button nose, almost being able to play dot to dot. Calm, welcoming, viridescent eyes enclosed beneath bright, octagonal glasses which have a matte black frame. They glanced over at you...looking you up and down. You fixate on their lips. Oh their smirking pair of lips, painted perfectly with onyx lipstick. You've never seen anyone so handsome.
That was the last time you saw them, anyway.
From what you can remember, they were arrayed in something so interesting to you, it was unique, eye catching. A rock shirt hung loosely over their figure which hid a pure white tennis skirt that was threatening to fall. Fishnets hugged their thighs tight. This outfit was finished off with some silver rings, cuffed on every single one of their fingers and emerald converse.
They never fit into the category of what society deemed as "nice" or "perfect". They never looked good in societies eyes, but art wasn't supposed to look good. It was supposed to make you feel something...and that was what they did.
YOU ARE READING
"Art"
Random"No artist tolerates reality" - Nietzsche • NOT A STORY • not exactly sure if this would be classed as poetry or something else so I just popped it as random, feel free to leave any comments. I'm always up for some constructive criticism!
