Everyone (wants to) think they are an artist.
But, true art is meant to fall apart.
It is the “and” “or” and “but”s stringing along a paragraph, written that makes no sense.
It is the tint of blue hue that lines the border of a sunset that mocks a sunrise as it bleeds orange,
The corners of undeveloped film exposed to light.
The string of pearls mixed with coiled silver that have no need to be laced by the same chain.
Mixed media splattered in disarray, leaving the bigger picture as an untold mystery.
Pricks on your finger from a sewing needle;
The dusty antiques in your mother’s basement, that you’ve been meaning to put up for auction.
A kindergartener’s fingerprints that make even the most childishly drawn tree look full with leaves.
The sheet music with stains of coffee from a night of successful orchestri.
The talent of swaying to a tune too beautiful and hushed to be spoiled.
The morbidity of your mind clouded with cataracts, distracting from the overall picture.
Freedom of body language that tells its own story.
Science behind modern inventions used while
time passes, spent correcting the “if” “will” and “want”s.
The joy it brings, and the suffering that allows one to spill their heart in a vibrant scene of unforeseen dreams,
playing trickery with the minds of the mean,
the silent beings with modesty certain – making for the art that is worth it.
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