Art is a constant in my life,
It’s on the walls around me,
In the hands of the people who held me,
Flowing through my own fingers,
Art is wound between the bonds in DNA.
So why should I question my own ability?
My art is praised by the people around me,
Why should I let myself believe I’m not an artist?
I know I’m an artist,
Why should I not believe in my own values?
Anything has the potential to be art.
Art is never a defined subject,
Art shouldn’t be perfect,
Nothing is bad art.
Art is life the same way that life is art.
But when I look at the paper in front of me,
How the portrait stares back,
That misshapen gaze piercing through my soul,
Each misplaced curve whispering,
“A real artist would know how”
I want to tear it to pieces,
To feel the paper as it shreds between my hands,
But I don’t want to destroy,
To ruin a piece of art would ruin the artist as well,
So I’ll keep my mistakes close.
I am proud of my mistakes,
And thus proud of my art.
I’m proud of how I create,
Therefore proud of my creations.
My ability doesn’t define my pride.