Pollock

Paint
my insides
pretty.
 
My ugly parts
are found objects.
 
Arrange me
so that I make sense.
 
I don’t wan to be seen
as a collage.
 
Or some junk my creator
welded together.
 
I’m mistaken for an abstract
but there’s nothing different about me.
There’s nothing to explain.
This is all me.
 
Glide your brush
across my canvas.
I want to feel every stroke.
 
Dip into my oil based tears.
Color me a masterpiece.

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