Surrounded by an ornate frame,
Few think to look twice.

For what fun
Is a cluttered mess,
Lacking any sort
Of artistic ability?

It's suffocating.

No one wants to be around,
For they can't breathe.

It stands in the gallery,
Trying to be like the others.

Likeable,
Colourful,
Interesting,
But it doesn't fool anyone.

All it is
Is a pretty painting,
Intriguing at first sight,
But unmistakably fake
When they take a step closer.

It's distracting.

It was carefully planned out,
Every stroke of the brush,
Although it may be abstract,
To be left up to the imagination,
Its magnificence is crystal clear.

Accused of impersonating
The masterpieces of others,
Plagiarizing,
Stealing their hard work.

Its very soul
Is killed off
More and more
With each passing day.

As everyone can see
It isn't what it claimed to be,
And the depressing atmosphere
Drives them all away.

Now no one bothers
Giving it a first glance,
As their views have changed,
And all the original effort
Is forgotten.

It's depressing.

No longer
Does every line
And every shape
Hold a deeper meaning.

Like a glass of milk being spilt
All over the hard work,
Slowly making its way across,
Seeping into every aspect,
And distorting the entire image.

***

This made less and less sense to my original thought the more I wrote.

8/14/2017