Oh, I am of art
Though do not mistake me of kind that ignites passion’s roar
Nor am I of kind that drums awe’s core
I am of art that conveys to much misery
Too much depth and sorrow
Too much pity to bring into tomorrow
I am monotone gone days and abstract lucid nights
I am cold-coloured complexations framed in Pyrite’s might
I am brush strokes wretchedly captivating the work I’m yet to do right
Oh the unwanted sketches I’ve forgone
Oh the lines I’ve repeatedly erase and redrawn
Oh the subtle dents of failure visible at dawn
Abandoned, still, isolated in wait
Caked in solitude thicker than dried paint
A sight so visceral it’s miserable
Oh I am alone
So, so beautifully alone