Life is an artwork; it is not obligated to give you a meaning or purpose. So what do we do about it? Give it interpretations.
Alot of us don't realize the privilege that we have of not having an objective purpose, we are not eternally bound to do one thing because that would be a curse rather than a gift. Life gave us a chance, and that chance is to give a meaning to life itself. So what is the point of living? The answer can be as ambiguous as the amount of stars in the universe.
Do not cage yourself into one meaning, instead, explore the vastness of meanings that each living creature interpretates from the greatest artwork of all time: life.
Hello, everyone. This will be the last poem/letter that I will upload in this blog. It has been a long time since I've last wrote here and my life has definitely changed tremendously. Thank you, everyone. And if you're interested in what I'm doing lately, all my platforms are in the link in my bio, I now make my own music. Stay safe and keep improving.
Paint me golden with your touch, Sculpt me, cut me with the soft, pretty whispers, and Perilous lies. Sketch the scars that trace my chest Colour the bruises, then throttle my throat The red, the blue, the yellow, the black The violet of my lips, And the scarlet of my blood. But once you are done, and loosen your smock, Set the canvas down, and lower your brush Your hand trails upwards to cup my cheek A serendipity, you always say Ephemeral beautiful that cannot be compared with. I open my eyes and I’ll lie on the chair Waiting for a masterpiece to be made.
Mary Seacole Black nurse sculpture Your determination points To injustice. Your struggle To serve, be accepted. Why were you shamed and denied? This is the broken land where we live. Your courage, your stride Takes me to our weakness
To the ache in my chest like a broken blood vessel. And trace the lines in my hand To a bad rotting root. How many wounds did your hand with compassion soothe?
Behind your certitude I imagine pain. Did your hurting Search out injury and loss?
And as you nursed those violent lacerations, Patiently waiting whilst the pathway beat its course, Did you see as if through a veil, Your own fractured self, Fusing with your patient’s, Both your Injuries restore back together All the way towards their good health?
This poem is inspired by the sculpture by Michael Jennings which is of Mary Seacole which stands outside St Thomas's hospital looking over the river Thames and towards the House of Parliament.
She told us that our fumes are poisonous our water turned from majestic blue to coal seaweed color her innocent animals are dying from bullets and thorns plastic flying on branches as if they were nature green leaves
she told us this
And we did not listen to her we did not we took her for granted
So she got mad created something that can destroy the ones who betrayed her a virus that kills us making us afraid to leave from the safe box
She is not evil she is only trying to help the animals live longer and live with no fear
Venice water is clear as a mirror for dolphins to swim for swans to dance they are living with no fear she's happy her artwork can't be destroyed for now
we owe her an apology for the mistakes we created we must stop the hateful crime and love the artworks she created before once again we suffer in pain
I looked down at my artwork None of it looking good The eyes are saggy And the neck is a mess The arms are noodles The legs as well The stomach is disfigured And the hair looks like a nest The feet are squished The hands are sharp The ears are long And my mind is a wreck For I'm not looking at my artwork No, I'm looking at myself At all my flaws And insecurities All my mistakes And all my thoughts After all I know I'm not okay With how I look Or how I am So I act like im a failed artwork And fix myself To fit in this world