Inspired to the school play and a written critique for Drama.

splashes of color
against a pitch black canvass
art at its highest form
is nothing but emotions
splayed across the paper
and no one can know that
except the artists themselves
and even they choose to ignore
the fact that their greatest
works are nothing but
a chance meeting of colors
and images against this
pitch black canvass we call
life
they cannot comprehend that
everything they've worked for
might not have been had they
gotten that one single thing
that would suck the emotion
out of them and such
kill their art:
a life
the one thing that all artists,
no matter their medium,
have in common
is that they have no life
because their entire life
is dedicated to the very
art that they try to perfect, but
the only perfection in art is
simply the act of
living
for if one cannot live, then one
cannot create, and creation
is vital to all art,
as art is simply the
creation of a different life -
the poor make riches and
the rich make poverty
and, still, neither can truly
experience either because they
lack the courage to look
at themselves in anything other
than a mirror image, they lack the
life to do so
artists never want to face the
secret that they hold deep in their hearts,
for if they do, then will anyone ever
create again, if the audience
knows the truth, then it will be
the end of all art; it will be
death
if all art is dead, then all emotions
will wash away like the dried up, wet
colors that stain a paintbrush wash
away under a stream of water
and if emotions die, then all
humanity will perish with it and
we will be thrown into a new
age of technology and mathematics,
and life on the earth will cease to
exist

and if everything I've told you
is true, then can you
really believe this poem,
for it is a form of art and
I, as the author, am an artist
so this is only petty emotion
splayed across the
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