The artist - God - in the process of making me
saw fit to void normality
carelessly losing sight of any perspective
I desired or deserved.
He abandoned bright shades of happiness
favoring darker hues.
He emphasized circles under down-cast burdened eyes,
while highlighting a timeless frown that falls from a
displeasured smile.
Lines of agony, tracks from suffering
not desired to be seen, mark my face.
They're too much like scars unhealed.
They accentuate affliction on the rough and withered surface.
On his last strokes
he placed black pigment dripping with torture,
and a daunting outlook on life. Just for laughs.
Time neither seems to move nor stop, Just is.
Pain illustrates the worst portraits.
If given the chance, I'll pass on the next life.
The artist and I are not on a friendly basis.