he looked just like a painting
you never saw him breathe
he was always still and quiet
his face was drawn perfectly
soft strokes of oil paint traced his eyes
though encased in a frame
he knew hed never be free
but i was not beautiful,
and i could not empathize
but i knew what was like
when he closed the door and cried
his mind was a prison of beauty
that he could not fit inside
a museum of perfect people
but he was never really in it
- because as they say about art,
you're always your worst critic.
YOU ARE READING
some questions id ask my creator about the sun the moon and my place in between
Poetrysome poetry. some common themes are, DID (dissociative identity disorder, the spilt in someones identity which causes them to alter between multiple other identities. more formal term for multiple personalities.) religion (i am not religious, the ma...
