Dear Pencil Sharpener,
I once was a painter.
An artist with beautiful abstract art under her name,
I had the talent to surface pain with my work,
And brought tears to the eyes.
I was not known by many,
Yet my existence was acknowledged-you see,
People knew who I was.
They just didn’t see what I did in my spare time.
They didn’t see the nude canvas being stripped of its blankness;
They didn’t see the colors blend and flow into a single shade of maroon;
They didn’t feel the warm paint on their skin.
All they saw, all they felt
Was emotion in a painting,
A work of art.
What a work of art I am,
Faded lines across my skin,
Not a masterpiece but something.
I have no price tag,
But that does not mean I have no worth.
I’ve put the paintbrushes somewhere they can’t be found.
I’ve washed all the paint away,
And while my work may stay,
I stand before you