I AM AN ARTIST (incomplete)

I projectile paint pictures on porcelain

The finest emulsions found in my paunch

Art more beautiful than DaVinci found in pipelines throughout the city.

My finger and tongue, palette for the world’s most gorgeous works

I wipe my mouth with my hands
I ate too much again
My stomach filled to bursting
Like a balloon in the mouth of a habitually overindulgent child 
The pressure willing me to burst 
Can’t bear to see my weight grow in the same matter
A direct correlation between my size and how much of me I loathe
My face isn’t lily white
My skeleton not apparent
I don’t envy models on the runway 
In fact, you will find my eyes more green in the Southsides of our cities–Where asses flourish
Much more so than our suburbs
My shapliness belies
The disorder within the recesses of my mind
Been batlling with bulemia long before I understood the term
a plague
Me–the offspring of ham–cursed to compulsively eat
It’s always okay if I eat too much
There’s a simple solution 
Solved by a single digit
Simple math
Returning from bathrooms
Eyes glazed over
A grin and a rub of the stomach
Artistry at it’s finest–the audience magically tricked 
The emptiness like a drug 
In direct opposition to the fullness

… that’s all I have… Bulemia is real. It exists. Black, White, Green, Yellow… skin color means nothing when the ideal follows one unrealistic body size.

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