I barricaded myself in my room again,
and I cried and cried,
just like yesterday.
And the day before that.

I used my razor sharp paint brush,
and crimson red paint flowed from my arms,
the kind of crimson red that comes from within.

The next morning, I pull my long-sleeve shirt over my arms
that are now laced with new artwork.

I am plagued with despair and anguish.

But as time went by,
I found my artwork becoming less and less appealing.

The next morning, I pull my short-sleeve shirt over my arms,
ready for the world to see what the faded white that is left of my artwork.

I am left with my faded artwork,
and I switched my paint brush with crayons.


I am embedded with happiness.

It took time.
But as I have learned,
life moves on.

You planted sunflowers in the regions of my body no other has dared to go
because you knew those were my favorite.
I picked the flowers daily, plucking at their petals,
mumbling,
“He loves me …  he loves me not.”
Well,
I am all out of flowers,
And you are all out of seeds.
You visited another garden today.
You told me that you like daisies better,
And you said that garden had daisies.
I watched you water that garden as mine turned to dandelions.
Your new garden has bloomed.
As I was sitting in my garden,
Someone came along and picked a dandelion.
I asked them why and they said,
“Dandelions are flowers too once you get to know them"

You are a work of art hung within a museum wall.
Some don't understand,
Some stop and stare, trying to figure out the inner mechanisms behind the inspiration to make such a work of art.
Some understand and appreciate the beauty that is bestowed in front of them,
And some,
Well, some love it.
Some truly, truly love this art in front of them.
They go to the museum every day,
And marvel at this piece of work.

You are the art work within the museum of my mind.
I visit you there daily,
and I look at you and look at you, and wonder
How I can be so lucky to have this within my museum.