A Stroke of Perfection
I sat in front of an empty canvass the other day,
Thinking of the perfect portrait in which I wanted to portray,
I began, and subconsciously I preceded to perfect my stroke,
Molding wonders until I hit a block, and my art began to choke,
Attempting to find myself within the collage of thoughts my brain created,
Getting weary though I watch my hands as they are unabated,
I try to consummate my masterpiece, but I lacked proper formation,
My creation was deficient without any present inspiration,
Though the colors were all of beauty, I found no amazement in my work,
I wanted to see the bigger picture, yet my eyes were consumed by murk,
I introverted the inner thoughts within my mind,
To grasp the feeling of a stunning work of art I'd hope to find,
Restrained by the idea of what I felt to be perfection,
Merely lacking understanding of my art's nonexistent affection,
As I meditate on my shortcomings the image is surely clear,
The raw emotion of my mental art is bigger than it appears,
As I alleviate my mind, I close my eyes to find a clue,
Mental images of your physical features start to cloud my view,
I chiseled jaw, facial hair, a coat of chocolate brown or two,
The perfect portrait lacks perfection without the image that is you.
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