A plight of art

“I think not enough thought has gone into art” 

I say as I grab my stained from paint brush,

Stained by those specific red and pink hairs

You know,

the ones tailor-made for human affairs?

Stemming from the inside of our human bare?

or so we like to believe anyway


It’s just I’ve been painting 

And hearing some claps

They say

To the thought I should gasp

Finally someone understands;

But then when the conversation starts

I sit in the back

Quietly trying to conceal

the sound of the barking at the wrong tree;

The fate of art is star crossed.


I think not enough thought has gone into art,

For it doesn’t account for the difference of us.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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