Last week, i was a rotting marionette, this week I'm a forgotten painting. I'm incapable of expressing my pain as a normal individual, I wasn't taught how to. So, instead, it slips out of me in the form of poetry. I can only see myself in sad pitiful objects and personify them into myself. All my attempts to be a human, are always pathetic.
I sometimes would feel like a forgotten painting hanging, on a very rusted nail that's about to give up, and on a browned wall which stores years of dust and pain of a family. It might have been a very vibrant painting once, but now it's almost blended into the background, even the wall that has been holding this very painting would pity at the state. Invisible, unworthy and pathetic—like me.
This painting has very high expectations for people who don't know how to clean or even take care of it, yet it wouldn't help but be hopeful for a bit of attention. It knows it's not anything as great as the starry sky or the mona lisa, but don't you think it's at least worth a glance? perhaps a minute, just a minute. Critics would often drop by the house, to greet the family. They'd notice something hanging on the wall, oh it's a painting and before it's very self, they'd talk about other greater paintings and spare no effort at this dusted portrait. If it could cry, it would have, if it could bleed, it would have, maybe then it would become worthy of a glance, maybe.
You might be wondering, what does a little glance hold? I wondered the same thing as well. I concluded that it must be validation, but the painting said I was wrong. It's respect. What the painting wanted was respect.
It doesn't want them to praise it as if it's the greatest painting in the world, it just wants them to acknowledge and treat it with respect. It hated feeling invisible, it hated everyone who made it feel worthy, and it hated itself for feeling pathetic.
I sympathized with that painting, poor thing. It cannot leave the house of people who don't acknowledge, it doesn't want to leave the wall it grew old on, it's home after all. It wants care, love, and appreciation from people who are blind to it. So it would let itself become dusted, it would let itself burn beneath the bulb, it would lament in the darkness, it would stay patient in the light. Sometimes a kid running in the corridors accidentally lets their eyes towards the direction of this portrait. The adults would tell them what it was, how good it was, but the forgotten painting that was starved for attention, even this praise feels like mocking. Even their gazes, something it strived for, now feel like were filled with scrutiny. The people it yearned to be viewed by, are now finding the flaws in it. The strokes are not steady, the colours are not complimentary, the lines are messy and the scene is boring. All it wanted was to hear that it was beautiful from the people it loves, it just wanted to feel worthy, was that too much to ask for?
What a pitiful little thing, don't you agree?
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