Raw

Flesh. An open wound. Yet, smooth to the eye.

As words are formed and art is made, 

a bit of me becomes lost to it. And yet, 

I give it away to others to be picked at.

They don't know me or my story.

But they judge, question, and leave me more

naked while still fully clothed.

I become raw.

It becomes increasingly difficult to 

pick away at my own layers, let alone

have you do the same but it's in this

rawness; this vulnerability

that ART is born.

So I keep picking away and letting myself

stay open like flesh.

Appears simple but remains RAW.