The Portrait

A portrait picture, hung on the wall 
It shone down upon the room 
A dark skinny man, longing. 
Longing for the attention 
Any attention from you 
Sometimes he smiled 
When he saw that you noticed him 
But that smile was a frown 
After a second or two. 
All he wanted was to be seen 
Not interpreted but seen. 
“Why must they think” 
“Why can’t they just see me” 
Every day at that miserable gallery 
New faces and old would walk on through 
Laughing, crying and some just didn’t know what to do 
But then one day stood a woman 
A most beautiful woman, 
That this poor painting had never seen 
She didn’t try to understand, 
She didn’t try to analyse. 
Instead she just saw him. 
The young girl stared into his eyes, 
She gave a little smile, 
But left shortly after 
With a tear in her eye. 
Did she understand his agony? 
Maybe she realised he was trapped 
Framed for a lifetime 
For something he didn’t do 
“The Sorrowful Man” 
That’s just my name. 
But I am more than that, 
Something these people 
Will never understand 
They may have hung me up here, 
For all to see, 
I may look sad, 
I may look Angry, 
But that isn’t me. 
I once lived a life, 
A happy life 
But that bastard painted me this way 
I bet you’re glad not to be me 

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