Paint me in, paint me strong. Paint me like the St. Peter’s Basilica. Michelangelo show them. The world forgot what beauty is. How it is carved into the skin by the man that holds his knife and judgments so close to the medium.
Picasso paint me into your blue scenes so I can finally understand how it feels to be shut off, to be cold, and to only live in one color.
Monet, paint me that same sunrise from 1872. You must have longed to see the sun be brought up to that ocean.
Donatello, make me into a burning David, but this time remove the hat, open my eyes, and bleed with me. I want water pouring out of my pores. I want fluid movements that earn for a pull from the tourists that seem to think I am but a precious metal. Make my hands lonely, make them reach out, and make them unfulfilled like every man and woman still searching for their worth in this world.
Neruda, paint me wordless into your poetry. Create me into the forest of your lost love and read to me of your sweet sorrows.
Rembrandt make me into the storm of 1633 in the Sea of Galilee, because I know all too well the pain of being destructive to others and most importantly to myself.
Munch, create the same shocked face of the Scream onto ever man and woman who screams for everyone to love them only to realize that they do not love themselves.
Vermeer, I appreciate your work on the pearl in the girl’s ear. But the mere idea that the pearl was worth more than her body ever was, makes me shutter. Who are we? We have always been awful.
Da Vinci, I admire your work creating the vocal point of compassion, love, and understanding into your work of the last supper. It astounds me that you gave your life to represent a selfless being only to have the followers fall apart at the seam because we cannot get over judging people by the color of their beliefs, outward appearance, and lack of social class. We do not lend a hand because we are afraid of the disease we can catch from others who are not like us. Ugliness is not a disease you can catch that you do not already have. We are all filthy, just in different aspects.
And Van Gogh, paint me into the stars so I can look down on the world and finally understand why we move so fast. As if there is something we are moving closer to but never really touching.
Finally, mother, hold me. Hold me and speak slowly into these damaged ears. Tell me I am beautiful and worth something more than a wife. Tell me I am more than a lower half and promise me, promise me you will never leave. Because I can always go into the minds of artists but you are the greatest creator I have ever met. You never sold me to any museum and you never boasted I was the best child in the world. But you loved me endless and you told me I was one of your beautiful creations.