a painter stands
and slashes the last wound
into their canvas
before stepping back
and squinting-
it's all wrong, they decide
the proportions and the color and
everything, really
they discard the canvas
and it sits like a gutted animal
wooden framing jutting from its body
like roadkills' ribcage
the next day the painter
decides to go for a walk in the gallery
they must remember what "good" art is, they decide
starved of inspiration, face sallow and soul sallower
as they wander the halls, something still
feels wrong.
they look up at Mona Lisa
and for the first time they realize
the odd positioning of her eyes
the garish color pallet of Picasso and
the lumpy clumsiness of Van Gogh
this cannot be
life is like
a museum.
each memory is an artwork
there is no such thing as "perfect"
in art.
just as there is no such thing
as a "perfect" memory
the day at the beach
that was planned for weeks
began with someone running late
and forgetting their sunscreen.
but they still went;
and they still laughed.
they added another piece
to their exhibit.
i believe that art is like living
to be loved
something cannot be perfect.
but it can be good.
it can always be good.
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoetryA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
