I'm an art gallery
pristine and empty till
a sea of watercolour
it's everywhere then nowhere
a fresh batch of
genuine love unreturned
it's innocent till its all-consuming
each piece fleeting and plummeting
with emotions of Winsor and Newton
each a serene numb oblivion to their virtuoso
who is digested into 8pt. Times New Roman
and printed out

this is not beauty
this is not romance
why can't you see
what's right there
my depression is becoming
who I don't want to be
and you don't want to be her either
behind my composition
I am not composed

the palette is always messy
and the artist always starving