I’m no longer a blank canvas,

a piece of wet clay.

I’ve been molded,

painted upon.

 

This odd shaping and random streaks of color:

a mess

or a piece of art?

 

I am not a wreck.

I have been wrecked in order to being glory to the greater good.

It’s not over.

I’m not done.

 

The paint isn’t dry.

Neither is the clay.

 

Unfinished imperfections keep me going.

Running towards the end of my life,

I find beauty in the world

and in myself.

 

I am not perfection,

but I am beautiful in ways the world cannot understand.

And I like it that way.