My art is my priveledge

Sometimes it's about perspective
What we have vs what we don't
I may not have health, physical or mental
I have never been, or known, the idle rich
But I am smart and employed
I have love that encouraged my voice
I comfort myself with my creativity
Sometimes I have to count my dollars
Be careful in my choosing of supplies
But I have more than one canvas
I have more than one paint
I have more than one brush
My art is my priveledge.

In my youth without thought

In appropriate words I cannot think
As words are such but a weak expression
of how this quilted silence lives inside of me
For deeply is she hidden
folded under such darkened velvet
in the quiet recesses of my soul
That I may no longer know her face
And in those delicate hands of youth
She holds a box of memories
that I may never see
For in my bitter misery
I made her hide away from me.

Abject object

Appearance is our first impression
Proceeding words spoken
I aim for clean and cute
I hope for a second consideration

I don't always object to being an object
But the object I don't want to be
Is an object to be owned
An object chassing affection

In my old age, I'm tired of sexy
I'm frustrated by the expectation
I wish my body wasn't a barter
I rebel againt "keeping it up"

I want to be a free range object
Living between "looking nice"
And "keeping a mate"
My style is for my pleasure

Attractive is relative
And personality effects perception
I hope to be disliked for what I say
Not for how I look.