The Painting

It moves, it watches;

lays plastered on the wall;

it mesmerizes the audience;

from there, it envokes many meanings;

from critics, who hate it;

to fans who adore it;

for in itself it is just a painting;

laaying dormant in a bright-lit room;

confined in a small space;

ready to be viewed again.




This poem is about: 
My community



It is essentially the life of a painting, if it were personifing a human.

 We are criticized, adored, and watched.

It says nothing, as in modern society we are taught not to talk

We are taught to do as they do be what they want us to be, to look, like them.

Imprisoned and inanimate.


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