blind to art

I can't see
towering spruce trees on hills

or a pink, feminine smirk.

So when my countenance evolves

into an emotional stare,

please don't think it's because

I am taking careful notice of

melting clocks or

pieced-together stars.

I can't see

those things.

Realism, Expressionism;

Still Life.

Pointillism, Impressionism;

Pop Art.

Romanticism, Fauvism;

Abstract.

How can these titling adjectives

mean nothing to me,

yet everything to someone else?

Baffling.

I can't see

honey-yellow birds or 

cans of Campbell's soup.

I can't see

a bleeding messiah or

a sunflower-filled vase.

Blank stare;

my peripheral vision extinct.

All I can see are colors,

shades, and tones.

The suffocation,

the dripping wounds

and the screaming mouths.

Try to understand.

This is all I can see:

Pain.

Thumping heartbeats.

Orange.

Parted Lips.

My baby sister.

A kneeled prayer.

Confusion.

A night wedding.

Scribbled poems.

Guilt.

Crossed fingers.

Top hats.

Colorful retinas.

Ferris wheels.

Laughing.

Blue.

Sunsets.

Panic.

Undying love.

This is all I can see.