One hundred years down the road of time
There hangs my portrait
Painted long ago
By a man I used to know
When I still breathed the same air as you
He said one day
"Let me capture your life and put it on my canvas."
And with his paintbrush of magic
He changed paint into me
With eyes full of sorrow
And a face weathered from thought and age
He painted everything but my soul onto that canvas
Although if you could see it
You would say otherwise
He said
"I believe I will take this home with me
And hang it over my fire.
For this portrait of the artist
Known to me as a friend
Will forever more remind me
Of how beautiful you truly are."
And there it hung
My essence on canvas
Years passed
Dust collected
And I was found
Through much searching I was found
For the man that painted me
They say he was a brilliant artist
Which was his name for me
A name I did not now possess
Though strange I had one in life
I lacked one in death
I remained unnamed
Strange still as it sounds
For one hundred years
With nothing attached to me but faded memories
And a century of dust and dirt
They took me to what I believe is a museum
And put me on display
Along with paintings of landscapes
And those of buildings and abstract images
And then there was me
With a new name to call my own
And when you see me
Say it aloud so I know you see me
For I promise to be polite
And if you smile at me
Maybe my eyes of sorrow will turn to joy
Because sorrow filled will they be
For they believe me to be he
Only in the form of paint
For in life I left nothing more
Than shreds of paper with rambling words on them
For I never truly became well known
But I accept this
For there is nothing I can do
As I am now only paint
My name from that moment on
Will be a name I can tolerate
But if you recall my true name
Do so to say that name out loud
So I know I was something
Something more than paint
And with those final requests
I say to you
One century from now
I will be otherwise known as
"Portrait of the Struggling Artist".

 
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