If we were a painting

From our eyes,
Can they tell the times we have drowned;
Can they see the nights we laid awake;
Can they see our fears and why we fear;
Can they confirm the innocence of our soul?

From our hands,
Can they sense the bullets endured;
It's hardness, brittleness and it's softness;
Can they tell the lives we took;
The types we suffocated to survive the fall?

From our cheeks,
Can they tell the ages we lived;
Can they justify the scars from our battles;
The scarcity of hope;
And the chronic want of hope?

From our lips,
Can they tell the names of our wishing stars;
The curses we have to bear;
Can they tell the names of our prayers;
For every silly illusion and sacred beliefs?

From our ears,
Can they imagine the echoes of our darkness;
The screams of our loved ones;
And the footsteps of our monsters?

From our hairs,
Can they sense being hallucinated in our wild;
Can they articulate why breezes feel like home;
Can the sense the calm in our chaos,
And the chaos in our calm?

Maybe If we were a painting;
They can feel what we feel.