Sitting.
On oak planks.
And splinters sticking in my ***.

Pitted.
Placed on a saucer like a high-class olive.
And I had never learned what mass was.

Still, on seclusion.
Held on a highlight board.
Held up to the limelight of precision.
My work can not be ignored.

But even after I had held it.
Up close and to the light.

My ***.
They can smell it.
I don't care.
They can share it.

They can see
and they can smell
Just all what they can see.

It's nothing.
I've ruined your sight-seeing.
Because all you have is just me.