The Artist

I see myself as a relic,
so poor, so tired. 
Like countless women from another time,
dead in the eyes
offering anything for meagre payment.
I prostitute myself for art,
my body is a canvas
stretched too thin.
I am worn down further
with every boring man I see
who wants to take my photograph. 

I sit on the train and wonder 
if I am destined only ever to be the subject,
of beautiful art
and not its creator. 
Sickly clouds are gathering,
hues of yellow and grey.
The train rattles onwards 
and all I wish to do is paint.
But pigment is scarce…
and my brushes are worn too thin.