Abstract is not for the audience.

It is for the hand that created it, period.
Prattle as you may with your wine snobbery, one arm tucked under the armpit of the other,
Your best attempt at uppity accents, wear off as soon as you leave the exhibition,
As soon you pay for my art,
Thank you for admitting, you haven’t a shred of art inside you.
The one who tastes the sweetness of honey, is not like the bee.
My abstract is poetry,
Find meaning in me,
But keep it to yourself.
The minute your opinion leaves your lips,
Your dollars leave your pockets,
I’ll know.
I’ll know you know not.

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