The Artist

So now I try. Holding the pencil I step out there and inside an object.

What the fuck am I doing?

Twisting lines into fragments of nothing

Hoping I can pull something true

And through into view, into here,

The real world, or ‘how you feel’.

Somebody,

Anybody, one man or woman,

Even a nobody can throw those same lines onto a page

Alchemizing a perspective

Into existence as something new and tangible.

Yet I, me, and those like me who see

Chaos in all straight lines

Put rationale, confusion

And unskilled strokes into something

….anyhting…to make sense of this….

This page, this sheet, this new universe we attempt to conjure

And prove we are gods unworthy.

And yet, what these…these…

…these artists do is vile,

Sitting at their canvas looking at the same as you or I

And they see something else,

Something ethereal

And then they in trude upon our colder senses

Kissing us deeply where we we were unaware could be kissed,

And they touch us

Touch us so raw that they make us

Feel so much less than they,

Make us feel human,

Feel humbled in the knowledge of owing them

For reminding us

Just how beautiful the world is.

The Artist

mkl .

Paris, France

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