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.
