The World Is A Peculiar Painting Poem by Sarah Elizabeth Clark

We the painted, art forms,
are inexpressibly manufactured,
we sell for more that way.
Would you save me from the sale rack
if I applied the right shade of lipstick,
would that be enough?

Or do my foundations disgust you?
The cheap, gritty canvas that
Is difficult to paint over.
There was no master painter
just an apprentice,
pinning her hopes on replicating
what others have created.

Is what you see distasteful?
Standing close enough
to examine the flakes and cracks
running down my spine,
connecting to my frame.