You are a six-foot clay sculpture in an old museum,

The large painting that took years to make.

You are the wet ink on a brush and,

The numerous bright colors in a rainbow.

You are the shades of color of a sunset at the beach,

The bright aerial fireworks in the sky on New Years.

You are not a blank piece of paper from a sketchbook,

An area full of dirt and dust,

Not an empty brown cardboard box from Amazon.

And you are definitely not a new white plain Hanes shirt.

You just can’t be a new plain white Hanes shirt.

Yet you might be a slice of cake from a wedding,

Or even a steamed lobster tail on a dinner plate.

Although you are no way close to,

A Marvel cinematic superhero movie.

I am the graffiti art on a dirty brick wall in New York,

The huge yellow billboard sign on a highway.

I also happen to be lyrics of a hit song on the radio,

The melody of an orchestra played at a concert.

I am nowhere near a six-foot sculpture,

You will always be a six-foot sculpture,

Also a large painting, and the wet ink.