𝕬 𝕾𝖆𝖉 𝕻𝖔𝖊𝖙 𝕴𝖓 𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊

Wrong Type of Art

I'm starting to feel like an art piece gone wrong,
the kind you admire until you look too long.
Pretty from a distance, a blur, a facade,
but up close I'm cracked, the beauty's a fraud.

From afar, I'm soft edges and light,
but step any closer, I'm chipped and slight.
Brushstrokes uneven, colours askew—
each line, each flaw laid bare and true.

I try to hold grace, to capture some charm,
but I'm all imperfections, like bruises on an arm.
A canvas of doubts painted over with care,
hoping no one sees the fault lines there.

Maybe someday I'll see with gentler eyes,

look at my reflection, and drop the disguise. 

But for now, I feel like a failed piece of art,

lovely in glimpses, yet falling apart.