"Art"

I am a monster and it seeps through my clothes.
I think I'm broken way down to my soul.
A scarred collection of past reflection,
I've come to realize I'm not an exception.
The things I create in the comfort of night,
shout not be praised, but viewed with in spite.
They embody my eternal strife.
The things that leave my sense behind,
and bloody my knuckles,
and pour tears from my eyes.
They are mine.
I love them blind.
I clean them up and make them nice.
Paint their wretched faces
and shine on them the brightest light.
What do you see?