Art

The first time I saw him, I knew exactly what he was. He was art. Art isn't supposed to look nice. It's supposed to make you feel something. Art was a pipe. Once intricately made, Time wore away His color. His hope. Art was music. Every time I was with him He was on his guitar Blasting the radio Singing, badly. Art was love. He made me feel unstoppable. He smiled after everything I said Like it actually meant something to him Because he knew what it felt like to be ignored. Art was always either high, Or drunk, Or sad. You couldn't blame him because Who would want to be sober When your life is always falling apart? Art was physics. He was Shrödinger's cat: Both alive and dead Until you open the box. Art was pain. He spent most of his time Making others laugh So he could be happy. Art spent most of his time alone Because he couldn't bare the thought of losing someone else. He already lost his parents. Art was the smartest person I ever met. He could answer just about anything And he always got my lame chemistry jokes. Art was more than the chemical imbalance inside of his head Or the accident that happened when he was seven. He tried to be stronger. He was emphasis on little things Like birthdays And the age of your siblings. He never forgot something you told him Even if he would have preferred to. Art was passion. He was staying up until 3 o'clock Trying to perfect a rhythm. Cleaning all of his pipes So they didn't feel all alone as he did. The first time I saw him I knew exactly what he was. He was art. Art didn't look nice. Art made me feel something.