Painted People
I know of a man, a normal man.
He has hair and eyes
and wears clothes and shoes.
He walks, he breathes, he blinks.
He bathes, he sleeps, he eats.
I think I love this normal man
for I, too, have hair and eyes
and I wear clothes and shoes.
I walk, I breathe, I blink.
I bathe, I sleep, I eat.
We are perfect for each other
how could we not be?
We grin, we frown, we laugh.
We have fingers and toes
and hearts and brains.
I know of a man, an ordinary man
whose body is clean and clear
like an empty canvas with perfect lines and shapes
steadily painted on to form an elegant horizon
and hung for all to admire.
I think I love this ordinary man
for his colors are soothing and dull
with perfect portions of hues painted throughout.
He is smooth and light
weighing only as much as his frame.
We are perfect for each other
how could we not be?
He is perfection; a piece of art
and I, an admirer of art,
could not disregard his perfect eloquence.
I know of a man, a handsome man
whose body is a canvas painted purple by scars and bruises
with watercolor eyes, a pastel smile
and a backdrop smothered in charcoal,
and is hung in the rain to dry.
I think I love this handsome man
for I am an admirer of art.
Rugged edges take place of an invisible frame that shapes him.
His paint is slathered on
causing disfigurement in the crooked horizon of his design.
We are perfect for each other
but how could we be?
He is perfection; pieces of art
hung out for the world to analyze.
And I, a mere admirer of art, stand at a distance in reverence.
I know a man, a handsome man
who is normal and different and strange.
He has hair and eyes
and wears clothes and shoes.
He grins, he frowns, he laughs.
I fell in love with this handsome man
for he has something no one else has:
My intrigued focus, which admires his blotches of heavy paint
splashed onto his flooded canvas.
He has depth, prominence, and ambiguity.
We are perfect for each other
how could we not be?
He is neither a beach nor sunset,
but a sweet disarray of shapes and lines
frantically scattered about in space.
And I, myself, an empty star,
am frantically searching
for something in space.
And I am drawn to his darkness
for it shields my light.
And in this art show of a world
we are painted people, hung out to be bought and sold
admired and analyzed.
And I bought the dark, battered canvas
with no expression or poise
For I fell in love with this beautiful art,
and on my wall,
placed near the fire,
it will always hang to dry.
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