•honeypot thoughts• a book of poems

"Art Within Itself"

I am art.
cheekbones sculpted and lifted by the higher power,
mind so bright, too much going on, under wraps like a tower,
lips imperfectly perfect, small in size, big in love,
body got it flaws, but for me I'm enough
see myself as a blank canvas,
ready for the paint, life, adventures, to kiss,
My skin, Mark it's territory and stamp it's time,
so much to appreciate and so much more to find.
art is the purest form of the human spirit
it can be anything you want, as long as you can explain it,
call it over analytical, cynical, shit maybe it's near it,
but I believe art needs to mean something,
Making things for the attention of it, don't mean nothing,
you're "just different" bitch you're bluffin,
doing whatever the crowd pleases,
except you're like a broken record,
it was good at one time now the happiness ceases,
you know who I'm talking to, writing this strictly to tease you,
call it cocky but I know you're tryna be just like me too.