Ink flowing, forming into images of many meanings,

Were never meant for someone as I.

The liquid never seemed appealing

As its grotesque limbs crawled into the cracks on my skin,

Creating stories with questionable intentions.

 

My sky blue eyes, painted with incredible colors,

Just like my mother’s.

Were meant to copy, a mere “copycat” I was.

The lines and shapes similar to their original forms,

Yet obscure in their own way.

 

“Magnificent and interesting,” They say.

Though as life has it,

Similarities give way to comparisons,

And the cycle of self exploration continues.

 

The brush, controlling the adventures of paint,

Were never meant for someone as I.

The curious item never seemed appealing

As the hairs drag on perfect, blank canvases,

Placing colors in deniable positions.

 

“Strange and confusing,” They say.

Though as life has it,

Similarities give way to comparisons,

And the cycle of self depreciation continues.

 

Light glowing, pixelated cubes forcing understanding to one’s eyes,

Were never meant for one as I.

I know this.

However, the work, the tears, the stories,

Formed into experiences shared to all,

Reached for me in the depths of misunderstanding.

 

It clawed at me,

It screamed at me,

It pulled me,

To leave the ink and the art.

And instead type in monotonous movements

To create immortal meaning without definite feeling.

 

No one speaks.

Though as life has it,

Similarities give way to comparisons,

And the cycle of work continues.

 

So my dilapidating struggle lingers,

As “Practice makes Perfect”,

So that one day I look in the black screen of modern technology,

and am happy to see.

My sky blue eyes, painted with incredible colors,

Just like my mother’s.