Everyday, the painters come to town.
Each with their own colors and brushes.
The villagers watch as they paint their pictures with such elegance and patience.
The artist that paints with red and black paints pictures of horns, teeth, claws, monsters of both man and animal. She does it so well.
They love her work, as much as I.
I want to be good as her.
The artist that paints with darker colors, she paints pictures of war and pain with hope of climbing up again.
They love her work, as much as I.
I want to be good as her too.
The artist that paints with brighter colors that the last, paints pictures of friendship, freedom, and courage. She smiled as she wipes the paint drops off her glasses as she worked.
They love her work, as much as I.
I want to be good as her too.
The artist paints with colors of crayons, he paints pictures of both sadness and joy in the eyes of childhood and in adulthood. His work is like a youthful flame in the cold damp night.
They love his work, as much as I.
I want to be good as him too.
The artist, one of the highest in her work, paints with grass and dirt. She makes pictures of wonder and adventure. Such life and much beauty. Using the earth as her masterpiece.
They love her work, as much as I.
I want to be good as her too.
There are so many artists that paint so beautifully. I can seem too name them all. They're are so many more that the ones I called out.
Their art has been seen by all.
Everyone loves them, adores them, showers them in gold and silver.
I too want be as good as them.
If I am a queen, then I must be great at my craft, right?
I follow the painters through their journeys, hoping that I too can create something beautiful as their work.
So far, I have collected so many tools, so many colors. But I feel as if something is missing.
I look at their pictures again and compare them to mine. Wondering why. Why do I not get the same praise as them?
I've grown so much, I've come so far, I've met so many people, I've made so many friends.
Yet... I'm still... nothing.
They don't see me at all.
I try everything I could think of to win as much hearts as they do, but nothing seems to work.
I want to make something of myself. I don't want to fail. But yet, I don't see myself as wonderful as those traveling painters.
They are all so talented. I can never compare myself to them.
I can't call myself a "queen" if I can't be one of the best. So I'm really a "queen" at this point?
I feel more like a "fool" than a "queen"
A fool to think I could even be as good as them.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of some sad Crap
PoetryThis is where I vent out some sad crap in my brain and turn it into weird poetry. That's basically it. You don't have to read if you don't want to. You'll probably think it's fake anyways. I won't post as much on this, since I don't usually do this...
