You don’t have blue skies in your mind.
You don’t have shiny stars in your eyes.
Your skin isn’t golden fire burning brighter than the sun.
Your tears don’t resemble raindrops patiently trickling down the window pane on a gray rainy day.
Your hair don’t breathe flawlessly in the wind.
You don’t look like sunrise when you wake up.
Your voice isn’t a tricky musical arrangement or a beautiful symphony.
You’re not sad or beautiful enough to become poetry.
You’re not broken enough that artists would die to paint your scars on their canvas with every color they could find until they lost you in the setting sun.
You are not art.
You are just plain and dull.
That’s what most would say.
Not to me.
You are not plain and dull.
You are what art aspires to be.
You are tragically beautiful.