The first time I saw him,
I knew exactly what he was.
He was art.
Art isn't supposed to look nice.
It's supposed to make you feel something.

Art was a pipe.
Once intricately made,
Time wore away
His color.
His hope.

Art was music.
Every time I was with him
He was on his guitar
Blasting the radio
Singing, badly.

Art was love.
He made me feel unstoppable.
He smiled after everything I said
Like it actually meant something to him
Because he knew what it felt like to be ignored.

Art was always either high,
Or drunk,
Or sad.
You couldn't blame him because
Who would want to be sober
When your life is always falling apart?

Art was physics.
He was Shrödinger's cat:
Both alive and dead
Until you open the box.

Art was pain.
He spent most of his time
Making others laugh
So he could be happy.

Art spent most of his time alone
Because he couldn't bare the thought of losing someone else.
He already lost his parents.

Art was the smartest person I ever met.
He could answer just about anything
And he always got my lame chemistry jokes.

Art was more than the chemical imbalance inside of his head
Or the accident that happened when he was seven.
He tried to be stronger.

He was emphasis on little things
Like birthdays
And the age of your siblings.
He never forgot something you told him
Even if he would have preferred to.

Art was passion.
He was staying up until 3 o'clock
Trying to perfect a rhythm.
Cleaning all of his pipes
So they didn't feel all alone as he did.

The first time I saw him
I knew exactly what he was.
He was art.
Art didn't look nice.
Art made me feel something.