not mine.

Murmurs,
Rough like gravel,
Match with the orange contraptions'
Never-ending song.


Quiet consumes the room and their minds,
But it has failed to seize me.
Instead,
My eyes, wide and steady,
Sparkle in the reflection
Of peach and sharp curves.


The piece is terribly flawed,
Though,
I cannot help to be awed,
At the artist's effort
It must have taken
To make such a thing.


My fingers
Twitch,
While my mind denies
The buried want -
That slowly begins to awake -
To claim it as my own.


Not mine,
Not my creation,
Not my idea,
Nor my inspiration.
The clay
Did not
Cake my hands or
Snake its way under
The crevices of my nails.


No, not mine,
But it's beauty so unique,
The green monster
Roars,
Kicks,
And shakes its fearsome fists -
It wishes to make a fool out of me.


With a final glance,
I turn on my heels,
Head shaking,
People staring,
"Not mine, not mine."