His eyes were crusty,
his clothes had a stench of musty.
His skin had a certain bluish hue,
for he rarely left his basement he knew.
On the front porch, piles of mail stacked high
as he waited hours for his paintings to dry.
As he painted these paintings, his hand would tremble
which in case would drive him mental.
His trembling hand wasn't the only source of his insanity
for the smell of the drying paint was depravity.
He had smelled so much paint that he couldn’t smell anything else,
not even his own farts you could guess much less.
On the rare occasion that he would go out and about,
people would bawl out.
“Why do you smell?”
“You look so unwell!”
He only went out to art festivals and the such
the community would keep him in touch.
At these festivals he would try to sell his art,
but just at the sight of his art, most people would dart.
But every once in a while, he would get a customer or two
and at least one of them would ask, “Do you collect crystals to avoid the flu?”
He would shake his head and then the cycle would continue,
to get inspiration he would cry into tissues.
He was so immersed in the art world,
so much so that from painting, his back had become curled.
YOU ARE READING
You Don't Have To Be Perfect.
PoetryJust like how no body owes anybody to be "perfect", this book consists of not "perfect" poetry by me. The poetry in this book will range from poems that I wrote for assignments at school to just poetry that I wanted to write/wrote in my free time.
