Pure art is fragile,
stitched together and held
by our dreams, joys, and struggles.
It is not perfect
for life is not perfect
and the truest art
reflects life as it is -
yet full of possibility.
It is the imperfection that speaks
to our imperfect hearts,
assuring us that we too are beautiful
despite our flaws.
The artist knows that
the harder perfection is sought after
the farther out of reach it becomes.
For the artist is human
and so should their work -
not messy. not sloppy.
But real, raw, and pure.
Usually, the harder we try to perfect our art
the more harsh, cold, and lifeless it becomes.
Because pure art
invites us to embrace and love
ourselves and others
as the imperfect characters we are.
And that's why we love them.
Hello, everyone! I have recently published my first chapbook of Christian poems titled “A Voice in the Wilderness – A Chapbook of Poems about God”. This has been developed and polished over the past six months or so. I am happy with the final product and hope you find encouragement in the poems but also a validation that the spiritual life is not all sunshine and rainbows. We all struggle. We all have periods of questions and/or doubt. But it is the yearning that keeps us coming back for more and allows us to experience joy. You can purchase either on Amazon or on my own bookstore (it is cheaper and has free shipping on my store) and is available on the Kindle and in paperback. Amazon: KindlePaperback Inkspiration Books (my bookstore): Paperback Thank you for your support!
Why must you smear charcoal
Over a painting that was a masterpiece to begin?
Why must you detract from your natural beauty
With uncarefully crafted scribbles across your skin?
A stamp upon your hide like cattle,
Isn’t attractive nor does it make it come alive.
For truth lives in the heart –
Meaning resides on the inside.
You are the artist,
But can’t you see your canvas is already done?
God perfected you in beauty,
His masterpiece should not be undone.
Decisions for permanent decorating
Should not be made on a whim.
For now feminine beauty is covered
By black, tainted skin.
Ink is the life-force
Of each and every artist’s hand.
But the page is forgiving,
Our mistakes do not become our brand.
Ideas have power,
Never publish without careful revision.
Because words can never be taken back
By an untimely decision.
If an idea has no weight
Unless you see it in the mirror,
I’m afraid it never existed at all,
Can’t you see that, my dear?
For if we have to convince the world or ourselves
Who we are by throwing it in their face,
It’s time we retreat to the quiet
And figure out who we are in the first place.
Ink is magic,
But too much overwhelms the mind.
So choose your words carefully,
And keep unrefined symbols from your lines.
For me to live a life void of expression
means to not live at all.
Yet I’ve ignored the true desire of my heart for so long
it seems my craft has become rusty and dull.
Thoughts used to be able to slice words
through page after page.
But now I find them jagged and weak-
forcefully driving them deep into paper,
where they used to flow with life and speak.
But gardens don’t grow
that have been neglected of seed.
I’ve neglected Inspiration’s trimming and pruning,
let my beautiful flowers by choked by weeds.
You can only hold out on who you are
for so long until you become nothing at all.
Trying to live the hopes and dreams of others
until you hear a forgotten voice whisper inside of you
reminding you of your call.
But the artist doesn’t announce it for all the world to see.
It’s not a dream you go out to obtain
or a career path you go down to earn your degree.
It’s accepting the creative voice that lives inside
and deciding to be.
But the artist doesn’t check in and check out
day after day without a cost-
they must bear the atonement for all the emotions and stories
humans have bottled up to be forgotten and lost.
We bear the weight of emotions upon our shoulders
feel them, digest them, and throw them
back up onto our work
and grieve with each new creation,
as a mother giving birth.
It’s a tortured love affair,
a marriage from within.
The artist to her brush,
the writer to his pen.
But when we stand back and admire our creations
and behold what we’ve given birth to,
we know our soul was meant for this moment,
dreaming is what we were born to do.