Painted Poorly

Wake up.
Waste my good face with a buried brow,
and ask,
“Who the fuck paints like that?”
The memory has melted to the floor.
But, I’ve just a couple fragments left,
of flying human hands.
A shattered recollection,
far from the future I had planned.
You must understand,
each moment
makes the most of me
if I’m not poked
when I’m supposed to breathe.
I’m a forgetful feline,
who darts for broken hearts in a beeline.
Shattered sharks,
whom I’ve asked,
“Be mine?”
Possessive, pawing, and puppy-like.
That behavior’s bound to bring a bite.
And it did, again.
Took my left hand,
and some poorly plotted plans.
So, before my masterpiece I stand,
and ask,
“Who the fuck paints like that?”