I am not an artist.
I do not paint a flower red, or mold a mound of clay.
My hands will never create beautiful art, nimble fingers drawing themselves raw.
And yet, my life is a canvas, covered in black ink.
Adjust accordingly, with strong lines and bold choices. There are no erasers, only decisions.
My name identifies me, the artist unknown. The insignificant tiny speck on the grandeur of chaos.
Look through the obviousness of the silhouette dancing on paper. See into her eyes. Let her spirit flow through the brush strokes.
The once blank canvas is riddled with flaws, unappealing to the highest bidder. They lower her value.
Can you see beauty when ultimately it's you who creates it? Or can the artist be subjective to its own creation?
Are you the artist? Or the canvas?