Self-Portrait of an Artist

I am an old antique door.
A shrieking conundrum,
That could,
Be fixed.

I lose track of time,
Forgetting due dates and
Assignments.
Forgetting names,
And the last few days.

I breathe in fresh grass,
But only from my hometown.
In the morning, listening
To my favorite tunes.

I live hyper-vigilantly. I’m a battered monkey,
Swinging,
branch
to branch,
never stopping.
Avoiding my crumbling home.

I am Braille.
My family is obligated to understand me.
Leaving no one else to know me
Or use me.
Unless sparked by interest.
Which happens very rarely,
I sit collecting dust, waiting for someone to find me.

I crave to be important,
However, I am not memorable.
An unnamed star,
Surrounded by constellations.



When picking colors on a pallet to use
I am the color Bronze Orange,
Sometimes tolerable,
or Adequate
Unlike the color Sky Blue.

I am a sprouting Tulip,
Summoned in summer.
Defeated by winter.
Growing up and down.
Waiting to be chosen,
And displayed.