There must be more to this.
I refuse to accept the premise of a life of labour and tragedy,
the promise of an eternity that never stands, a dream that’s never dreamt, a story so poorly planned.
A picture so bleak and bland.
Some say the pictures perfect if I say it is,
then I say it is, yet nay it is?
The truth is it’s only perfect whilst ones painting it, once it sits, the fade begins, the creaks appear, the canvas splits, the image shifts but we live with it.
It can’t ever be how we pictured it, yet, those cracks and smudges, rips and stains, the years of pain and joy that yield the page; that’s what makes life worth it.