I am a complicated masterpiece. To some I am just a simple piece with asymmetrical lines and colors they do not recognize. To some I am a piece of confusion with lines that have no meaning and colors that hold no potential. People that call themselves artists glance at me and try to sum me up. They pay no mind to my details, they do not search for my history. True, artists; ones only capable of making such an intricate masterpiece see the beauty in me. They admire the lines used to create me because they see the pain in each stroke. They love each individual color because their meaning shows. They pay attention to the symmetry and even know my history because every part of this canvas is a result of some tragedy that developed into what you see hanging before you. Yes, it would be easier to leave a description under my frame. But I am not a simple work of art. I was not meant to be understood or summarized. I am meant to be thought about, to be pondered on and then to be reflected upon. If you cannot acknowledge the beauty within this complicated masterpiece, then I was not meant for you, I was not created or framed or hung up here for you. I am a masterpiece; a timeless piece and understanding me is a part of this beautiful complexity.