- It was me!
All the colors …
All the pain;
All the blood, tears and laughter.
The Artist saw me,
through and through …
Who was this man?
or woman?
The name on the art…
only had initials.
Was it that day?
The day in the Park?
When I let my soul bleed …
my heart dream …
my wounds be visible,
to only the artist who could see?
He or she captured that summer day;
when the yellow shone in my red locks.
Or do I just see me …
As the artist intended?
Does every patron see himself?
Herself?
Artists create life …
or do we create the artists?
