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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great visual effects created from this piece. Nicely done!