I am going to vomit
Because I ate too many cherry pies,
Those bug-eyed brutes swathed in saccharine.
I am a glutinous specimen,
A dejected amalgam of twisted mass,
My supple canvas stretched between heavy set frames.
A husky display, I sulk slovenly
In a bustling corner, motionless under the
Daunting weight of my composition.
The pretentious passerby,
The vulturine committee of jurors
Bray and caw, shriek and gape
As they writhe in agony upon observing me.
With bitter remarks and critical claims
They shuffle away; to them,
I am worse than a decayed carcass.

They scatter like feeble fawns
Unwilling to face the glaring lights
Baring down upon their frail vitality.
They dismiss me with a hollow
“I don’t get it.”
A certain finality hangs in the gap between us,
A stagnant static that poisons my painted pores.
There is a revolting truth about them below my hued layers

That they refuse to acknowledge. They are long gone,
Their sugar-glossed eyes dissecting the next
In line. They like him, nodding in approval at the
Bright flowers and butterflies mirrored in his eyes.

They do not know that I killed my mother with the final brush stroke,
Her head hung with the horror she knew was hers, ours, yours.

It is enough to make me vom