Some people are works of art.

Lines that crawl out from fingertips,

The thickness of ink, their lifeblood’s

W

         O

                  R

                          K

It will stain the pages of their days, paint

Their existence black, white, red, green,

Every color and hue imaginable.

They flock, only to split,

Drops of paint running down a canvas,

Rainbows to stain their hands and clothes,

The sun to illuminate their faces,

The joy of the world to give them life.

They are exquisite.

They are art.



Some people are like statues,

Carefully constructed, molded,

Manipulated, rolled, warmed, chilled,

Poked and prodded until they are

P

       E

                 R

                        F

                  E

       C

T

Symmetrical, and beautiful.

They hold dear to immortality,

Won’t let slip their fears and insecurities.

Tinted shades and colored smiles,

Confidently marching the streets,

With that all-knowing omnipotence,

That only the timelessness of being stone

In body and mind can supply.



Some are like metal-works.

Crafted from what was considered

J

      U

N

      K

Now they are extraordinary.

The scars they wear

The rust on their metallic skins

Only tears could create

You can see it all

You can feel it all

And they let you

Their hearts are open

Their arms welcoming

They are the created,

They are the reborn.



I am more like a scribble.

Undefinable and uninteresting

by standards.

I lack the

C

       R

             E

                 A

                     T

                         I

                           V

                                I

                                    T

                                         Y

Of the paintings and sketches,

The

C

     O

          N

               F

                    I

                        D

                             E

                                  N

                                       C

                                            E

Of the statues,

And the

R

     E

          S

                I

           L

      I

E

     N

           C

               E

Of those made of metal,

Solidified by pain,

Revived by creation.



I am unique.

There is no beginning or

E

          N

                       D

To my existence.

There is no one meaning,

Nothing to latch onto for clarity.

I may be a treasure,

I may be a diamond in the rough.

I may be worthless,

I may end up in the trash,

To be discarded, to rot away.



But I exist.



I do not wear the sun in my smile.

My hands do not bear the colors of

My heart. My eyes do not twinkle

With the shades of a millennia,

A galaxy, a whirlpool,

Of who I am.

Every memory a stain,

Every stain worn with love.



I am not a timeless enigma.

Tinted-shades and empty walks,

Each step telling a different tale,

Of Perserverance,

Dedication,

Durability,

And the personification of

Eternity.



I was not risen from the ashes,

Given life anew from a

B

     R

O

     K

E

     N

State-of being.

I was not lifted,

Fixed,

Scars mended and

Shown to the world.

I do not have

A heart so open,

So caring,

So willing.



But I exist.



I’m more like a scribble.

Varying so often.

Degrees of confusion and

Uncertainty.

What will I become?

What have I already been?



Am I the blueprint,

Of art to be?



Am I the outline,

Of a statue to be

Molded?



Am I the concept,

Of a metalwork,

To be pulled from

My pain and pressure?



Or can I be what I am?

Can I be a scribble,

Endless and infinite,

In my own right.

Unique,

Always changing

As the time goes by.



I think

I will be

Happier

As a

S

   C

     R

        I

          B

            B

               L

                 E

I will let my fears be known

I will show my imperfections.

I will change

I will grow

I will evolve.



Have been, is being, will be.



This is the life of one such as I.



This is the life of a scribble.