brush strokes on canvas,

graphite on paper:

a cacophony of color,

a masterpiece of mistakes,

a world of my own under my finger tips.

mine to create, mine to destroy,

as i restart, retry — again.

so when i’m falling apart, 

run ragged at the work, 

nobody will see.

nobody will know.

that's what makes this bearable.

and isn't that beautiful?

the abstraction of art,

the melody of meaning.

the cramping of my fingers 

as i restart, retry — again.

is this really all i’m good for?

all i can do? 

the hands used to sculpt me,

to carve my flaws

craft my features.

my body of clay,

cracking in the heat.

a divine creation,

hideous in form, 

imperfect in its worth.