The Untitled

June 18, 2017
By Anonymous

The picture of myself that I painted
Now has a broken frame
And all the colours are now tainted
A new canvas I seek to claim

Time forgot to heal me;
Left me with deeper scars
The world moved on while I'm still empty
Gazing it at all from afar

Conjuring a masterpiece
From the ashes of time
The sounds of the colours go quiesce;
They burst out to look sublime.

Covered in my darkest secrets
A fine stroke of agony;
With a firm brush of regret
I can picture apathy

And all my thoughts abstract
Forming a technicolor fountain
Saving every emotion like an artifact
Buried deep inside my shielded mountains

I sketched a silhouette of my soul
And saw the monochromatic pain
To this grief I condole
For this feeling I can no longer contain

A damage so simple, so rustic
For every eye to behold
A damage so painfully aesthetic
Carved me into a new mould

A chaos which is my mind
Has been battered and bruised
I wish the answer to "who I am" I can find
But I still remain confused

Now I am a different piece of art
To this change I know not why I was entitled
With everything falling apart
I call myself the "untitled"

The author's comments:

We're all a piece of art and the best part about art is that it not supposed to be understood but appreciated from afar

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