Art

She never believed,

That she was art.

She drew,

And painted,

And expressed herself soulfully,

But she could never believe,

That she was,

Just as pretty,

Unique,

And beautiful,

As that on canvas,

And on drawing paper.

Whether with harsh lines,

Of dark charcoal,

Or softer,

Vibrant tones of acrylic.

She never believed,

Or tried to,

Until her art teacher,

Said for her to paint,

Herself,

As she saw herself.

She used all her least favorite colors,

Like mustard,

And bright scarlett.

She used dark black,

And grainy grey.

She painted a girl,

With her head bent,

And hands nervously clasped,

Around a number two pencil.

A girl with dark gray eyes,

Pale and drawn face,

With freckles,

That seemed uglier,

Then her least favorite colors.

She painted a shell of a girl,

Because that is what,

She thought of herself as.

Her teacher looked at the painting,

And frowned slightly.

She picked up a paintbrush,

And dipped it in maroon.

She used long strokes,

And bright colors,

Until the canvas,

Was colorful,

And the girl,

Was beautiful.

The teacher then,

Smiled at her,

And said,

“Art is not meant,

To hide beauty,

With dull colors,

When the real person,

Is so much more than that.”

 

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