The story of art.
Sitting here and nothingness becomes of it.
Everything is here but it isn't. Is my mind repelling ideas or something?
Is that a ray of hope I see? An idea. It comes to me and just like that its gone.
Back to square one with a lesson learnt.
Hope is all that is left. Hope is all that there was. But will keeps me grounded, the will to outdo myself. However bright or dim the light is I'll take it.
I will ran with it.
After all the verdict is limited; thumbs up or thumbs down. Just ran, either one awaits me. Neither one defines me unless I let it.
Perfection is what last describes me but what becomes of me.
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