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My family are all secretly artists
How can I feel such anger
Replacing the feelings of love and happiness
I used to feel around them?
Were they always like this:
Leonardo DaVincis painting the pictures of themselves
They wanted the world to see?
But I, I am Picasso.
My artwork of their distorted faces,
Showcasing their blemishes and ugly secrets
The feelings the hide, so effortless to keep-
I spot and point them out with my paintbrush.
No longer will I play along with their game.
I refuse to paste a smile on my face
Instead letting my emotions freely flit across my visage.
While yours- oh dear Grandma, oh caring Aunt-
Yours are blank canvasses
Portraying nothing (or so you think).
Or worse, faking love and concern.
It sickens me
Because I've been enlightened with wisdom
The gift of seeing past the superficial, perhaps?
Your thoughts are like hideous pimples on your skin.
And oh my, you're covered from head to toe with them.
And you frown.
A zit popped up between your brows just now.
You best be careful
Before I'm not the only one to figure you out.
Or maybe the others know
But are not embracing it like me?