Someone once told me about an artist who couldn't paint.
Where plagiarism took over the tip of his pencil,
but he didn't draw, or paint, or create.

The kisser whose lips left behind previous lies on your neck, making you believe them.
The copying of work from computer screen, to your math homework due next class period.

That painter you told me about?
That anonymous artist of that beautiful abstract painting of the sky within your heart, and the stars dancing in your eyes?
That's me...

I've tried to find an original beauty to discover yours.
But..that's the issue. You're like me.
You don't have original beauty.

Your portrait has swollen kissed lips,
love-bites on your neck,
and claw marks on your back.
Reminding you of who you already are.
Reminding you of who you never wanted to be.