The Art that We are

Place of birth and last name, the country we live, and creed that we claim.

Many we use, many we say, to paint ourselves a particular way.

This list of things sets us apart but in truth we are works of art.

Born blank, a canvas of white, possibility vast, shining and bright.

With every action, thought and deed, another brush added in intricate weave.

Futures fade as pictures take form, the purest canvas is used and worn.

A stroke of red, a brush of blue, in darkest shade and vivid hue.

Through joy, and sadness, love and scorn our simple white becomes adorned.

Pink and green, to aquamarine, what colors can paint such an imperfect being?

Colors liberated from every season, a beautiful picture complex beyond reason.

In every moment and second we share, life renders our canvas astoundingly rare.

Grasp the color from each glistening star, it still can't show the art that we are.

Words dont exists that could ever describe the depth of a soul or emotions inside.

The pain of true loss, love for a child, or passion thats deep untamed and wild.

The art that we are is muddled and messy, it takes a life of living and feeling sincerely.

Where do you go, Where do you start, when words fail to capture the depth of a heart?

Words inspire awe, they can go far, yet fail to show the art that we are.

The soul is every color under the sun, millions named and more to come.

It's made to be seen or felt by all. Not to be hoarded or hung on a wall.

Beyond word, or thought, or deed, deeper than name or country or creed.

Yes life paints us all in tone, shade, and hue the colors in me are the colors in you.

The art that we are, profound in design, stirring, heartfelt, truly devine.

Bare yours true and I'll bare mine, pictures painted by hands of time.

What I see in that tumultuous heart, is simply, purely, indescribable art.