A museum of feelings, I walk around with the words printed all over my face disguised as sad excuses for expressions.
Vulnerability put on display like a five foot tall girl made of straws, they call it “emotion”.
When tears roll down my face, I tell myself I’m finally feeling.
Turns out
they’re just a ticket for you to enter my tempest and destroy it!
A museum of feelings, I call my anatomy.
Everyone’s welcome here. Go on, feel me.
My anxiety is almost as beautiful as a fake Mona-Lisa with a bad frame.
My sadness, like listening to a decade old rusted trumpet over the sound of modern music. (Ew. Who likes that anyway?)
People walk past and pick at insecurities as if they were six year olds pointing at naked women’s paintings, and then they stare at their feet.
I hold up my sadness with pride as if it were a masterpiece.
As fragile as a ton balancing on twine.
Passerby’s drinking my love as if it were cheap wine.
Empty halls much like my chest, locked in art just waiting to impress.
A museum of feelings, I call my anatomy.
Everyone’s welcome here. Go on, feel me.
My anxiety is almost as beautiful as a fake Mona-Lisa with a bad frame.
My sadness, like listening to a decade old rusted trumpet over the sound of modern music. (Ew. Who likes that anyway?)
People walk past and pick at insecurities as if they were six year olds pointing at naked women’s paintings, and then they stare at their feet.
I hold up my sadness with pride as if it were a masterpiece.
As fragile as a ton balancing on twine.
Passerby’s drinking my love as if it were cheap wine.
Empty halls much like my chest, locked in art just waiting to impress.
A museum of feelings, I walk around with the words printed all over my face, disguised as sad excuses for expressions.
Nobody likes museums anymore, oh look! it’s shut down time.
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~ Dia