His accurate painting how it still haunts me, I can’t enjoy everlasting sleep , the people still see me half smiling and they’re waiting, while my main portrait is disintegrating. They watch me as I watch too and I stay still in every room. I feel myself being pulled out so, as more copies of me spread ‘round the globe. The people look but don’t see, as they still believe that I have died. But as you spread me around, I still live on in each of your minds. I am in museums all over the world and history and art classes seem to have need for me. I am on the internet, I am everywhere indeed. More and more copies made everyday, just when I think I'll finally wither away, another person remembers my face. My long dark hair that will never grey, my porcelain face that shall never age. The slight glimpse of my humble breast, and my arms positioned that will never rest. I am thought of everyday, I can feel it tug at my brain. The only thing I cannot feel is my long overdue heart, for it is not stretched or pulled or misplaced, it has been ripped apart. My body is nowhere but my soul is anywhere. Unless everyone decides to forget, sitting in front of Da Vinci, I will forever regret.
Signed,
Mona Lisa.
The idea for this poem came to me when I heard a rumor that we think of Abraham Lincoln at least once a day and I thought, "well he must get sick of being thought of".