The artist - God - in the process of making me saw fit to void normality carelessly losing sight of any perspective I desired or deserved.
He abandoned bright shades of happiness favoring darker hues. He emphasized circles under down-cast burdened eyes, while highlighting a timeless frown that falls from a displeasured smile.
Lines of agony, tracks from suffering not desired to be seen, mark my face.
They're too much like scars unhealed. They accentuate affliction on the rough and withered surface.
On his last strokes he placed black pigment dripping with torture, and a daunting outlook on life. Just for laughs.
Time neither seems to move nor stop, Just is.
Pain illustrates the worst portraits.
If given the chance, I'll pass on the next life. The artist and I are not on a friendly basis.