Mannequin
I have a passion
for a form of expression,
A ceaseless existence
which has been around for ages;
deep in my veins,
my roots,
which have grown,
I've tied within me a thousand knots
connected to my love,
Art.
I've taken it upon myself to study
and with years,
progress shows,
yet, I do not put my art for sale,
for the world is harsh,
and I am not the greatest,
I am overshadowed by the greats,
and so,
I stay at home,
like a mannequin,
and further doubt myself.
Stiff, my arms, my art makers,
hands,
they ache, echoing the feelings
my heart feels
when shrouded in indecision.
My father once told me,
often he repeats,
F.E.A.R. is nothing
but False Evidence
that Appears Real.
It's all in my imagination.
And so, with this in mind
how long will I remain,
crying,
like a mannequin?
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