i'm not Art

so i look for it 

in the eyes of the women i photograph 

on the lips of my lover

between the lines of the books i read

to the end of the horizon

from the start of a rainbow 

over the wrinkled forehead of my grandmother

near the weeds next to the tomb of my grandfather

inside a dead leaf

outside a rose

under the pebbles in my garden

through each prose

i'm not Art

i can't find Art 

so better yet

let me create it.

if you would ask me where Art is, i would point at your chest and say that it's in your heart. but i would be half-lying. for it definitely is within you, but the Art in your heart isn't the one you're seeking. the Art you're seeking lies in your fingertips, your palms, your mouth, your eyes, your toes. Art lies wherever it's created. Art doesn't bother with what it is. all it wants is to be born. to be brought into this world. to be created.