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Poem #295

A work of art is a small term to
define the perfection with which
all of us were built. We are beautiful
paintings behind a protective glass but
we are all just hanging in a museum only
to be seen, not to be appreciated.

And then come they. The people swinging
their fists against the glass not realizing there’s
a piece of art behind it. And the piece of art fights
back in the same way and we are just destroying each
other instead of celebrating the different brush strokes
which brought us to life.

We are all just paintings behind broken glass, hoping and
praying for a restorer to put the pieces back together or to
at least pull a curtain over us to cover up out shame.
But are we supposed to cover it up or wear it proud?

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