Wednesday, January 19, 2011


My heart is tired.
My body is cold.
My head spins in it's own dizzy mess.
Unexplained tears appear suddenly,
Like an unwanted guest, no one wants to acknowledge.

In my office,
An unfinished painting waits for me.
Colors and lines that are supposed to build the background for my masterpiece.
My hands will never execute,
The beauty my mind created.
I am like that unfinished painting,
It will never be completed,
Because I, the artist, lack the skill to perfect it.

1 comment:

  1. Maybe the perfection exists in the struggle ...