Artists capture moments for eternity
In dried paint mimicking life
But the stiff edges of them
Are unable to show the emotions
That flow off of everyone
Softening their edges
Bleeding more than my open vein

Their colors are unable to resemble
The stark red of my blood
On the recently bleached porcelain
Or pinpoint each star
Of the galaxies within his eyes

Nor are they able to blend their paints
To show how the simple white pills
Absorb the colors of my palm
Or how they make each of his movements
So drastic and sharp

The way her body turns and twists
When the music pulses within her
Is something artists have yet to paint

They may grasp how her hair twirls around her
Getting stuck on her lipgloss
But it will never look right
Without the motion behind it

The lack of music is deafening in their portraits
They tried to capture the beauty of a songbird
In a soundproof glass box