Art does not have to be drawn, painted or written. It does not have a certain shape, and does not have to be brought up to a certain standard. In fact, art cannot do any of these things, not truly. What we call art now has lost all meaning. We abuse it, lie to and about it, and then these things that we call art are art no longer. We try to say that perfection is art. That is a lie. Art is perfection. Art is when something is put through hell-fire; something that has been scorched and tested, broken down and wrestled into shape. It is never and forever. The end-product of pain, agony and weeping, spread out and screamed at the top of a voice. A whisper at its' loudest, ink spilled across a blank page until it resembles and reflects a human soul and the thoughts of the maker. People fear art. People bleed for art. Sometimes they bleed too much; they bleed out. That is as much a part of my story as it is yours, or the next person's. But it does not have to be the only part in this battle for freedom, conquering and beauty. Our stories are art. This is one cliché that reigns true. Some of this art, these gorgeous "Mona Lisas", are never seen. They pass away, not on, and this, my friend, is what happens when art dies. Please, /do not fear/do not kill/do not hate/ this beautiful, wonderful and terribly broken piece of art that you and everyone else sees.
Let art live on...
[A/N: I hope you enjoyed this. It was very emotional and personal for me to write out in words, and I hope that you see the true meaning behind these words.
Yes, I understand that this is not in the common format for poetry (rhyming), it is closer to free verse style.
Have a day <3
|-/ Stay Alive ]
YOU ARE READING
A Heart Of Ink //DISCONTINUED//
RandomThese are fragments of my heart and thoughts put into words. Some may call it poetry, others might not. It may come in any form, so do not expect a simple book of poetry, but pages of my heart, broken, smothered, incomplete. These things have been...
