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.