Self-Portrait

I hate my face,
it is pieces scattered of a mirror,
an abstract painting of ugly scars.
My ragged lips are deepened,
with words too thick of awkwardness.
I’ve been told before looks aren’t everything,
True beauty lies in the soul.
Wasteful words stretched into

jagged letters.

Picasso painted a picture,
a replica of my broken
face.

Inside were rectangle shards,

Different shades being painted, slicked

Onto canvas.



I wait and only imagine.