You're a canvas smothered in fragmented glass
Mirror of beauty,
Aesthetics of God.
You're a plastic portal to the Ideal form,
Propped up on a cliff,
It leads to a brick wall.

Try to delve into yourself
Obsessed with the shining garbage on the outside
But it doesn't exist
It's just a painting.

You slice your hands as you attempt to claw your way inside
Blood dripping and staining and real,
It doesn't exist
You're just a painting

Painted by you,
Painted by them,
Painted by us.