portrait.
No matter how hard I scrub, the paint on my hands doesn't want to go.
It holds a grudge it seems, a grudge that tells me I should have put it to better use.
I should've made a masterpiece.
Instead there is a self portrait, slightly discoloured, disproportionate and disillusioned.
Once I get it off the skin beneath is red and raw.
The blotches mirror to the portrait.
It's like a red balloon stretched over a skull, the white seeping through where it's pulled tort, splits and seems.
Where in becomes out.
Where person becomes portrait.
And the person is no masterpiece believe me.
YOU ARE READING
•RENAISSANCE•
Poetry"there is a life and there is a death, and there are beauty and melancholy between."- albert camus renaissance (french): rebirth
