I sigh. Looking up, at the beauty… I sigh.
I feel obligated to sadness, but why?
The truth of this is that it’s not real.
The way I think and how I feel
About this. The beauty.
And it most certainly is beauty
(If not somewhat snooty of it to look so pleased, so at ease).

Yes, yes… we can all see the effort and hardwork
So superior as you loom over and lurk
Above all the other beauties in the gallery
Commanding our attention, so cooly, so callously.
You may be the masterpiece but you’re not the whole collection
I see you majestic… You see yourself perfection

You are not.

A smudge here, a stain there, canvas smothered with specks of dirt
And that’s what makes it worse
It’s your imperfections that make me hurt.
I sit. And I critique. As I’ve always done…
I am cruel and I am blunt. But
I admire. And I sit and I wonder why
I desire such a faulty, tainted
Beauty… I wonder why…

And so… I sigh. Looking up at the beauty… I sigh.