A Miserable Kind of Art

Curating shadows on my wall,
Tracing cracks where the ceilings fall.
I lock the door and kill the light,
Perfecting the stillness of the night.

Silence is a velvet shroud,
Whispering regrets, never out loud.
Carving ghosts into the floor,
Building a monument behind the door.

I’m tethered to the ghosts I’ve grown,
Within a gallery I call my own.

It’s a miserable kind of art,
Arranging shards of a shattered heart.
I paint the promises I couldn’t keep,
Let the secrets bury deep.
Look at the canvas, look at the stain—
A masterpiece born of the pain.

They tell me to burn the frames,
But I’ve given every ache a name.

I’m tasting sorrow, slow and cold.

It’s a miserable kind of art,
Arranging shards of a shattered heart.
I paint the promises I couldn’t keep,
Let the secrets bury deep.
Look at the canvas, look at the stain—
A masterpiece born of the pain.

A portrait of the bruising.
A masterpiece of losing.
It’s miserable.
It’s mine.