I’m scared that I have nothing left to speak of. All my poems pour art of misery. Making statues of our grief. Filling the museum of my life’s ruins. They tell me to smile it will make me more pretty like the art on the wall. So, I paint love I never seen. Polishing myself to be left on the shelf. The art sees more truth than I. Being loved for what is something I don’t know of. Crossed legged, fingers intertwined. Praying was a virtue I could only dream of. I just needed to plead with someone other than myself. Knees marry the ground as I have with my loss. Who am I passed this pain? Begging for an identity even if its not my own. Ask yourself who is the lead character without their role? Is there a story even to tell? So, I reflect everything that is shown to me. The art and I are only a muse. A showcase of words that cannot be spoke. An example of what could be. A life in the mirror of what should be. My art on the wall is painted with misery & so am I.