Static Picture
Even as the clock keeps ticking, hours do not pass,
They keep saying time is the best healer,
But she lives in a static picture,
Where she’s denied the medicine everyone has.
Artists look and don’t know how to paint her,
Admirers try to debate her,
What’s that anguished look upon her face?
Is she haunted? Is she scarred?
Why is the pain of a girl from a static picture so real?
She could be made of stone,
But her carvers would forget her heart to transform,
She’s a sculpture with a fleshy heart,
That still beats, still bleeds, still breaks apart.
She’s watched by the many,
In a museum, in an opera house,
Her painted pain, her carved agony,
Fine art that only by him wants to be touched, watched.
“I’m actually excited to see you bloom,”
He once said,
But how could the girl anchored in the past,
Bloom if time never comes to pass?
Oh, to never be art or artist,
To never be so tormented you need to create,
To never be someone’s tortured art, their own personal hell.
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