Paint her with beautiful colors,
Decorate her ARTIFICIAL face-already tinted and tarnished,
Exclaim how this portrait is your best yet
And never mention your only failure, me.
I’m so unDONE, unEXPOSED, un CERTAIN ,
The soft impressionist sketch,
Too gentle, too hidden from the spotlight, too tender…
Something far too weak for your artistic brush
To paint in vivid colors.
You prefer the classic red rose
Already overDONE and embellished-a million, trillion times over,
With its BOLD ness, glamour, and arrogant air,
Its scarlet petals undaunted and POSED.
But I am no FLAWless crimson rose;
I am the lowly daisy that awaits in your garden
OverSHADOWED, under APPRECIATED , TAKEN for granted…
You lionize the lionized and forget the forgotten.
I thought you were an artist.
She is the glorious symphony,
The melodious triumph proclaimed-overly majestic and defined,
Proudly displaying magnificent awe,
The winner of hearts with a mere flicker of forced emotion.
But my voice is so SOFT so THIN so WEAK
A mere waif of a dark, somber elegy,
Written in darkness, dreamt in darkness, left in darkness…
Waiting in darkness for the inescapable death.
Yet you are my maker.
Why do you crave for something,
Something so IMPOSSIBLE -out of your grasp,
Held out in front of you to make you a FOOL,
What a pretty, EMPTY , porcelain vase.
I know I would not, should not, cannot compare myself
Because I dwell within the plain, little teacup;
I am BRITTLE and SMALL and SCARED.
I may not be for display, but I am useful at least.
But you are an artist.
Yet you do not see the BEAUTY within me
That [everyone else can].
But you are the artist
And I am the creation.
IT’S OKAY IF YOU START OVER.