A Prayer to the Artist

My artist, I picked you
Not thinking I'd be hurt.
I wanted you proud of me.

I playfully teased you
until I was chased, hunted.
I thought you wanted me.

You showed me off, to they
who at me laughed, and mocked.
You did not dare protect me.

"Not good enough," said you.
So I was tortured, stripped
Of everything you liked in me.

Now, locked away, you don't
Visit. I knew you'd forget.
Did you ever even know me?

I'm made of pieces of you.
I'm a victim, like you are.
We're the same; you and me.

My name is Idea.
I knew you'd forgotten.