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Modern Art

People are broken.
I am broken.

A shattered, tangled, fragmented
Mess
Of puzzle pieces, broken glass, and old bent coat hangers
Poking out the sides.

I could be modern art?

I have different meanings to everyone and
They’re all convinced I’m
Only to be understood
In one way

And I’m just warning you
Don’t run your hands along my
Jagged edges, I’ll
Make you bleed.
But it’s easier to heal from physical wounds than
Mental ones.

And sure, if you want
Just stand and stare
If you looked at the ocean,
Would you see water or 
Another sky?
Your eyes won’t help you
See inside.

Maybe questioning me would work.
Wondering what bent me out of shape and asking
Who broke me?
Maybe if you asked enough
Questions,
I’d answer.

Or follow the footsteps of others and
Add another chipped shard
To what the guilty artists call
Their ‘masterpiece’
Always just a piece
Never only whole

You could try to teach me about
The world.
Tell me what happens to
The broken.
But if I only learn, why
Would you need me?
If I only listened, why
Would you stay?

Everyone has done a few of these
But you,
You have done them all.
Learned me in every aspect 
Of my shatter because
You were the reason for it.

But I wouldn’t be 
Standing in this museum without
The cracks that lead me 
Here.
I’d never have enough 
Of myself
To walk away with.
Maybe you taught me 
Hate, sadness, and
Anger
But you also introduced me to
Sympathy, laughter, and
Hope.

Now I know
The artist behind the art and
I know
Broken people still are people and
Modern art still is 
Art.

I forgive you.

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