Art

We are build to be the shadow of forever.
Forever flawed and forever incomplete.
We forget the paint dripping on our hands
And our fingers on the keyboard
Typing away those litanies.

In our flaws we like to build perfection,
But is perfection really something to crave.
How can something keep on growing
If there is nothing to learn from?

Art is flawed,
Just like us,
Just like it should be.
It is always incomplete
And never finished,
Never done when it should.
Dents on the skin
And aged by time,
wrinkled,
Burdened,
Bent over at the spine.

With all those bruises, cuts and burns,
With all the sarcasm, selfloathing, selfgrowth, and slightly taciturn.
That is what makes art beautiful.
That is what makes art unique.

Art is never perfection.
Art is you.
For you are not perfect,
And that is perfectly fine.

I want to know your story,
Your song, your heart, your breath.
I want to know what keeps you ticking.
I want to know why you are not dead.
That's what art is for.

So bear the burden of your incompleteness
And make it finish you off on the canvas.
It's this blood that makes art.
Art is not perfect,
Art is divine.
Divinely flawed.
Flawed like you.