You never see the beauty in the ugly thing staring you in the face, whether it be what you see in the mirror, or the thing that you hold in your hands to end it all.
The metal of the gun; shiny, sparkly, ready to please whomever fires.
The strands of the rope; strong, reliant.
The grain of the pills; slipping you into your permanent dream.
Or the face that you and many others see.
Different to whoever looks at you.
Maybe to some beautiful, wise and pure.
But to you, a monster, never pleased and never pleasing.
You will choose to never see the beauty in you but in the others.
Because you see the world as art.
And you as the starving artist whose career never took off.