I am the ocean;
concurring ripples
rooted in my scalp,
dark waves cascading down my back
of which no one would see
the beauty within.

I am the earth
underneath your feet.
Haven of not only the living
But also the dead
of which no one would see
the beauty within

I am the painting
to be magnified to see specks of color
but, afar,
merely looks like a straight line
of which no one would see
the beauty within.

I am the sculpture
of a volatile beast
or, at the least,
its ruins
of which no one would see
the beauty within.

I am art
no one would be willing to see
despite of my obvious presence.

I am disturbing, distressing art
who’s crafted and carved from
cold hard truths
than painted
in pretty pink and purple lies.

I am the art
no one would dare appreciate
because that would mean accepting
how imperfect humans are
and imperfection
could never be art.