I see myself as a relic,
so poor, so tired.
Like countless women from another time,
dead in the eyes
offering anything for meagre payment.
I prostitute myself for art,
my body is a canvas
stretched too thin.
I am worn down further
with every boring man I see
who wants to take my photograph.
I sit on the train and wonder
if I am destined only ever to be the subject,
of beautiful art
and not its creator.
Sickly clouds are gathering,
hues of yellow and grey.
The train rattles onwards
and all I wish to do is paint.
But pigment is scarce…
and my brushes are worn too thin.
-
Author:
SerenWise (
Offline) - Published: February 3rd, 2019 11:09
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 14
Offline)
Comments1
You may be new here, but my word, you are to date enjoyed... Neville
Thanks!
No problem, my pleasure
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.