Don’t Touch the Art

I was a sculpture

Made of clay, beautiful nonetheless.
I was shaped and perfected by my own hands;
Softened with gently touch,
Hardened with loves flame.
I was a masterpiece.
Then you came.
You threw water on me,
I wasn’t a masterpiece to you.
You softened me with abusive hands,
Hardened me with spite.
You molded me into what you were feelings,
Not caring for what had already been created.
You tore down an artist’s pride.
Made way for your arrogance
You took away the gems on my skin,
Made me bare.
You couldn’t stand to see them shine.
You replaced them
With everything you thought was worthless,
And left me for the next fool to find me.
But he was no fool.
He was an artist.
You were the critic.
He saw your marks,
The ones you left behind.
Though an amateur, he took on the task.
He poured water on me
But not to change me like you did.
He wanted to smooth my edges,
Help ease the scratches in my skin.
His hand were gentle like my own
And I could finally breathe again.
He put the gems back,
Out of order and they were dull
But we both knew it was progress.
Where you tore me down he built me up.
I was not my masterpiece,
But I am still one to him.
I am a sculpture.

  by Rachel Hurt


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