I am the kind of person
Who does not write
I am not a writer
Art - my soul is empty of it.

It belongs to them
I fall in love with them
Their brush strokes of delight
Their melodies always so bright
Art - it aches that they are full of it.

Through spectacles
I try to impregnate my senses of the unreachable Meanings,
Dispersed.

I subvert
Their crisp outfits and sparkling faces
That gracefully punch
With such superior perfection.

It belongs to them
The artfully divine
But for the sake of advancement of mankind
My soul was ripped apart and stripped of Art.

And now
I'm left with none of it.