Emotion
by Hostess on Sep.05, 2009, under Poetry
Crying thick tears,
Like drops of paint.
With cheap mascara, I probably look like a Pollock painting.
But why don’t I feel like a masterpiece?
Why do I need appraisal?
I don’t need to feel like finger-paint blotches
Yellowing on a refrigerator door,
Loved only by my mother.
I am loved by more than just her,
Perhaps not by the critics,
But what do they know about art?
