Sep 2016
What is art?
The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form, or is it the way your hands move down my waist and hugs my curves. The way your lips are distinguishably marked against my skin. The way your hands traced my spine and sent shivers through my body. The love marks you left compressed against my skin with every touch, every look, with every kiss that made it all harder to take in. So what is art? is it just drawing on paper because if that's the case then I'm your canvas where you portrayed your doubts, your fears, your stress, your needs. But forget my tattered memories, and all the pages of my sketch book that you have taken from me. I still do crave your kisses on my inked fingers and please do forgive the pens they have stained and the paints they have ruined to fix the panting that was never cracked or shattered to you. Astonished by your blatant disregard towards my feelings, claiming you know me but you have yet to find me beneath my words of guise through this poem. You have painted my body all the colors of the rainbow and yet I can't help but feel grey. Neutral. An ignored color, nothing very special, just like I am to you. So what is art? because the art of me, is you.
The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form, or is it the way your hands move down my waist and hugs my curves. The way your lips are distinguishably marked against my skin. The way your hands traced my spine and sent shivers through my body. The love marks you left compressed against my skin with every touch, every look, with every kiss that made it all harder to take in. So what is art? is it just drawing on paper because if that's the case then I'm your canvas where you portrayed your doubts, your fears, your stress, your needs. But forget my tattered memories, and all the pages of my sketch book that you have taken from me. I still do crave your kisses on my inked fingers and please do forgive the pens they have stained and the paints they have ruined to fix the panting that was never cracked or shattered to you. Astonished by your blatant disregard towards my feelings, claiming you know me but you have yet to find me beneath my words of guise through this poem. You have painted my body all the colors of the rainbow and yet I can't help but feel grey. Neutral. An ignored color, nothing very special, just like I am to you. So what is art? because the art of me, is you.
