Can you put a number to the

            Feeling of gentle rainfall on your head?

A percentile to the warmth of

            Sun beaming on your skin in the spring?

A visual display of my subconscious may just be a

glass of water.

A glass half full of the human condition and

half empty; bearing a painful reminder of lost goals and

empty dreams.

This embodiment of my mind that took hours to create

Earns a three minute review

And a two digit definition.

 

In the system of grading art

There is no three digit number- no 100%

You can never give 100% of what someone is

Looking for

Because

It is not perfect

You are not perfect

But art itself can never be perfect.

There is no grade for intangibility

No point value for genuine imagination

No numerical measurement for raw emotion

 

“Now…

What are you trying to say?”

This age old adage finds its

permanent residence at the tip of the tongue

of those who’ve nothing to say for their own

lack of creativity;

Those who cannot simply accept what is

right in front of them.

 

This entirely subjective assumption

Of what you think that I think.

How could you think that what you think

I think means any bit of a thing.

But with each

point below perfection

I feel a sting as my heart sinks.

And it seems these numbers

really do mean

 everything.

 

Our impulses can be unleashed

just as far as the leash will reach

without being released.

And my

Visual mind tricking

is oppressed by tedious nit-picking

if “my point” just isn’t “sticking”.

 

But my mind has wandered miles that yours

will never see; billions of people,

billions of minds

billions of paths travelled.

Nevertheless

none bear the footprints of more than

One mind.

One thinker.

One artist.

We are all artists, in some respect.

Each of us share the entitlement

to sole possession of our own mind.

Our own thoughts.

Our own paths.

 

My path, I articulate in pencil strokes.

The lines find their course from my mind

through my hands like a swift breeze down a

narrow alleyway.

These ebony streaks of imperfection

Cascade from my fingertips

not as sustenance for my grade but

nourishment for my soul.

 

 

 

Each blade of grass in the

charcoal landscape of my soul

encompasses a piece of a story to be told.

When you’ve listened to the song

each blade has to sing.

Tell me then

What my story is worth-

And how those numbers mean a thing.