Depreciated

I'm something that helped you express how you feel. 

I'm in your head. I'm the heart on your sleeve. 
Something you can use.
You collected me. You accepted me. You see all of me.
Exposed.
Mould me. Like a woman in your bed.
You hold me with scrutiny. 
But no words are said.
Carve me into beauty.
Cutting bits of me away. 
Bleeding. Dried, no liquid left inside.
Life drawing.
Idea dawning. I'm a portrait in your head.
A concept you haven't developed yet.
A dream you had last night.
A long term project.

A labour of love. 
Make me. Perfection. 
Shaped.
Kiln treated.
It got heated. 
One more stroke and you're done.
I'm the one. Don't over work me. 
A masterpiece. 
A representation of your creativity. 
For everyone to see. 
A collectors piece that you wont part with. 
Priceless.

You have a self defeating streak. 
Undervalued, over criticised and cheap.  
Brush strokes of passion. A flourish of the wrist. 
I'm painted in the tint you choose. Tonight the colour is bitch. 
A Monet, a Da Vinci, a sculpture in ice.
Those early days were nice.
Now I'm stuck like a butterfly, struggling to get free. 

A reflection of your imperfection, a monstrosity

I'm your Frankenstein creature, on which you wasted your time. 

You manipulate what you create, because someone broke you. 

blowing hot and cold, I'm getting old and tired already.

unappreciated, dated and used.

You've had your fun and now where done you'll find another muse.