A masterpiece of tissues, self fulfilling veins, circulating blood cells, commitment of a heavily tissued contracting muscle under the left lung to beat — even when you call it an idiot and beg it to stop.
A masterpiece patiently serves.Patiently endures .
Tolerating tortures not going down with the shit
National Gallery curator never hang a backstreetboys poster over Monet’s Waterlylys.
But master piece’s owner does. Punishing it for illusive imperfections — with expensive cover ups,spray tan, acrylic nails, testosterone injections.
Masterpiece is choking, yet serving gracefully. Steady and sound.
Masterpiece is there to serve.
Heedless to external noises,harms, distructions, approval and hate.Impulsive furstarations and moodswings of the owner are below master piece’s greatness.
Wether it is unhealthy fat layers ready to be peeled off for masterpiece to blossom
or yellowed bruises to hide from teachers in school
or bleeding cuts painting over whitenned bedshits.
of course furstration kicks in.
yea , drunk stepdad beats you till you fall unconscious
yea, you had a miscarriage no one predicted
yea, cancer is a bitch
and of course you choke on blame for that time you asked gynecologists to murder a living seed
and of course every now and then you get bludgeoned half way to death by own fears and nightmares.
and it is okay.
of course frustration kicks in. it must
frustration is not an obstacle , nor a distraction.
it is essential, if not the most significant part of the journey.
Close your eyes, your mouth, iMessage app, close your twitter, shut doors to your room, to yourself.
it knows what to do best
and no, it’s not an idiot
and no, it wouldn’t stop.