Sierra Mazzucca's Poetry site

I’m not one to remember my dreams.
But the other day, I was hardly asleep.
Convincing my eyelids to remain pressed together, avoiding opening.
I seen you.

You looked right through me.
I don’t know what was harder, realizing it was a dream.
Or knowing that even in my dreams you, don’t see me.
I’m just the tilted painting in the lobby before you get on the elevator, to your Penthouse suite.

Painted by some unknown artist.
Every day you walk right past me.
I’m invisible.
My paint is nicked and fading.
Today you leaned on me, but you never even looked back at me.

I just want to be seen.
Why won’t you acknowledge me?
Do you practice ignoring me?
It seems you perfected, the avoidance of my esteem.
If only you took a minute to appreciate me.

I understand I am just one painting.
There are many near perfect pieces to be seen.
You have no use for creative imperfections, like me.
Different taste in art, clearly.
To you, I’m just another hanging canvas in a lobby.

Not unique.
All while I am forcing my eyelids to stay shut long enough, so I can catch a glimpse of you possibly looking at me.
And you looked past my framed section.
A collection of bold and vibrant scenes.
Each one brighter than the previous colors dimensions reached.

Intentional.
But someone who is mindless, lacking life, creativity, self centered, and selfish, will only ever see a plain painting.
Regardless of he or she.
So I practice being present, here in reality.

I am speaking to day dreamers specifically.
And in doing so subconsciously, we allow the night to keep all those pointless nights dreams.