To
you I am a painting,
Dried with wet brushes.
A flow of colors worth glimpsing,
As my smile secretly creases
As a painting, I cannot recede.
I ask for help yet I cannot ask too much
My colors I remain blended even buried,
But a painting seeks more than such.
I cannot expose my loneliness in fear of sorrow
With stressed eyes I take a pathway to make a walkway.
So I remain a lonely painting to open your windows
For you to see my ambitions beyond what I portray.
So I choose to be a subtle creation
For you to symbolize rather than sympathize or scrutinize,
Yet I pay the price for my fraction.
I remain dried with no advice.