The Artist

The artist,

That day when he gave me the art,
it was not me he made happy.
For it was but a mere stroke,
on a piece of dirty canvas.
One cup of coffee had spilled over,
the day before, when I left the house,
planning to leave him.
But he saw me trough and made me come,
back to his place and show me his art.
He said love is but as sign,
of consumerism in a world,
filled with material and
not with all that’s beauty
Giving me his painting,
all that it showed me
was but a mere stroke,
on a piece of dirty canvas.
I believed it when he said,
he could show me the world,
trough eyes which only see beauty,
but never though it’ll be so ugly.
as if looking at a demon,
where beauty is his aura.
I though he loved me because of
my skin, my eyes and body,
my talent, skills and knowledge,
but beauty is only ugly when seen
trough an artists eyes.

The uglier the prettier,
The artist likes it filthier
beauty is what he can see,
but only in the filth of me.