I am not very good at it
…but it does not matter.
With trembling hands, I take the brush,
My heart beats fast, my cheeks a flush,
Colors blend in chaotic streams,
Yet in this chaos, lie my dreams.I play the notes, each one askew,
My melody, a song that’s new,
It may not be a perfect art,
But it pours forth from my heart.When people say,
that they dislike my art,
and I hear all their laughter and chatter,
I don’t take it by heart,
and I think to myself:It is true, there are lot of things that could be better,
as I might be not very good at it, but I had fun creating,
so for me their opinion does not really matter.In gardens wild, where weeds entwine,
Amongst the blooms, a hope divine,
Each petal bright, though rows are bent,
Reflects the love I have spent.Words stumble, tumble from my lips, In halting, clumsy, awkward slips, Yet each word holds a piece of me, A truth expressed, though clumsily.
For passion isn’t measured by Perfection’s unforgiving eye, It’s in the trying, in the fight, In every dawn, in every night.
