Sometimes I think I'm a painting you once owned
One you claimed as a treasure
As time went by, I was hanged on your wall
To be viewed and felt for pleasure
I stood at one place, and waited for you
How naive and foolish was I
Not to notice that I was part of a collection
Was your love for art just a lie?
YOU ARE READING
About Her
PoetryPoems are her feelings She wants to keep private But she wants everyone to know
