I like to paint,
Now, let's be clear,
That does not mean I'm good at it,
It means I like it,
I like to paint.

Lines across a page,
Colors colliding together,
Forming something new,
And it's not perfect,
That's the point.

Because, when you paint,
It should be a perfect world,
No mistakes,
It's more comfortable to look at,
To be with,
But why create a farce?

People deserve to know the truth,
And sometimes the truth is crooked lines,
Blotted colors,
Irregular shapes,
That's the way it goes.

Life is all these cringes,
All the tears that make paint into water colors,
All of the confusion,
Life is imperfect.

I like to paint,
And I suppose I am not too great
At making a perfect world,
But I'm **** good at making a real one.