*tw: blood and violence mention*
I am art.
When I am cut,
I bleed a thousand shades of red.
I am art.
When I am hit, I bruise,
my blacks and blues becoming
yellows and greens.
I am art.
Inside my head,
is an abstract painting
obscure and scattered
and difficult to understand.
I am art.
Open me up
and I am swirls
of red and white and black,
colors bleeding and blending,
gruesome and strange.
I am art.
My skin is like
a sculpture,
textured and flawed
made with blind eyes
and clumsy fingers.
I am art.
When my feet hit the floor,
I make music.
When my bones crack
and my muscles tense,
they're singing.
My heartbreak is
like a soft melody.
I am art.
I'm a photograph taken
with an old camera, with
flash that doesn't work, and
hands slightly shaking.
A photo that doesn't
tell the whole story.
I am art.
My features were sketched
late at night and are
constantly being
erased and replaced.
I am art.
I am overlooked and
misunderstood.
I am art.
Why is it so impossible
to find someone
who will admire me
for my darkness and my flaws,
for my stray lines and my pain?
Yes, I am art,
but, the question is,
am I beautiful?
Yes, I am art,
But am I worth
being looked at?
I am art.
I hope there is
someone out there
with a kinder gaze
and an appreciation
for art like me.
(Because that person surely isn't me.)
YOU ARE READING
recycled poetry
Poesia❝i wish i was writing something special, but these words have been used before and there's no originality to it at all. i'm just reusing phrases until they're worn out, like musty library books or hand-me-down clothes.❞ from ❛hand-me-down poetry❜ i...
