An eccentric museum accepting visitors even at midnight
Diverse artworks littered the walls
The artworks were the walls
And there you were, a mediocre painting
Barely beautiful, but intensely intriguing

Such an ordinary painting as you have caught my attention
Contained in a frame created out of flimsy, cheap wood
With curves and lines not deemed comely by standards
But to me, in a way, appealing
You bear revolting edges which deplores me
But pleasant colors fill some of your space

Far from magnificent, greatly lacking to be a masterpiece
These hands of mine tremble with want to refine you
I've got paintbrushes for fingers, tubes of visions for colors
Dexterous are my hands as my mind is creative
Let my touches sketch your path to grandeur

But you are your own art, you are your own
The words reverberate within my skull
I chain my own hands down and battle with the urge
If I cannot appreciate you, I shan't recreate you
One last stare, before I look away