we are all incomplete,
unfinished masterpieces,
no matter our years;
there is no perfection here,
instead, the thread of an idea
of what might be
has evolved into this work -
this life -
through the years,
it only reaches its conclusion
in death
where many flaws are forgotten
as we are raised upon a pedestal
we'd never thought to climb,
only to be forgotten
in a short passage of time;
so it goes
with great art
Tag: art
Hope
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is it art if it is not consumed by others; if it is not seen by the public, how can it breathe? is it just a hobby; another form of work; is it play? what if it soothes, healing troubled minds? what if it inspires, sets fire to hair and moves us, but remains unknown? what if we didn't feel compelled - this insufferable need - to attach labels to all things? what if everything just was requiring no label to give it life, to define it, to provide meaning - how would we hate then?