How mysterious
How obscure
How bizarre

You choose to stare at brush strokes instead of your media
You choose to live in some vague attempt at what some call "culture"  
And look down on those who prefer the rest

Your tastes are what you call "unique"
But you're in a flock of black sheep

You will look down on me
Because you don't deem me worthy of some great thinker whose name you can't pronounce

You will look and groan about how kids really shouldn't be allowed here
because they just don't get it
Because we don't fit your melancholy and expressionless identity

And it's true
We're not a part of your empty pride

We will look at a landscape or portrait and smile
or maybe frown
Because it makes us feel something

We don't care for the culture around it

We're only here

Because it makes us feel

And isn't that the point?

Art isn't supposed to be shoved to the top of a podium

It isn't supposed to be sat behind glass while some snobs stare through intently
Not really sure what they're looking at

Isn't it supposed to make you feel something?

Maybe not..

Maybe I'm just a hopeful youth out of his place.