She had this odd obsession with paint.
So odd that it evened out her normality’s,
Divided up her deformities
And substituted her qualities in a way
That she kept a paintbrush in her hand at all times.
She drenched her fingernails in every plaster possible,
spelling out a phrase she knew all too well
"LET’S PAINT THE TOWN RED".
Little Miss. Interpretation took red
To seriously and painted everything
EVERYTHING
Obscure.
Paint dripped from her chin
Like ambrosia dripped from the sky
And fell onto the mouths of gods
Suckling on symbolism.
She painted a portrait
Of herself
And left it blank.
Titled it "PAINT"
And hung it in the corner of the gallery upside down
So that way everyone knew the girl who
Didn’t even know herself.
She bends hangers in her hands
And holds out
"Look mommy, modern art".
Taking every joke to seriously
Yet taking herself not serious at all.
She cries paint.
She inhales it into her bloodstream,
the black tar on her lungs is just a canvas
like this world is a canvas
and she is the only one who discovered invisible paint.
So while you are all listening to this poem,
she is painting.
And you never notice because you think
she's a painting herself.
So ugly that you called her a masterpiece.
Because Art?
Is what we call everything we don't understand.
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