“I think not enough thought has gone into art”
I say as I grab my stained from paint brush,
Stained by those specific red and pink hairs
the ones tailor-made for human affairs?
Stemming from the inside of our human bare?
or so we like to believe anyway
It’s just I’ve been painting
And hearing some claps
To the thought I should gasp
Finally someone understands;
But then when the conversation starts
I sit in the back
Quietly trying to conceal
the sound of the barking at the wrong tree;
The fate of art is star crossed.
I think not enough thought has gone into art,
For it doesn’t account for the difference of us.