I was meant to be a masterpiece
but I remain a sketch
left leaning against the wall,
my outlines fading in the silence.

The brush never touched me.
No colors ever dared to fill me in.
I am paused mid-creation,
a ghost of what I could’ve been.

Turned away from the light,
as if my presence is too loud,
too much,
too unfinished to be seen.

Not art.
Not ruin.
Just something left behind
too heavy to display,
too delicate to destroy,
too much of a burden to face.