Who told you art was
By definition satisfying,
That it had to meet a certain standard
In order for it to be "good".
Let me tell you,
I once lived under that delusion,
Of constant anxiety,
Perpetual stress,
And worst of all: Conformity
Just as well,
I was the judge, the critic, detractor
I was beyond harsh, dastardly,
(Sad and pathetic)
Beyond light,
Beyond satisfied.
That is a senseless way to live.
Art is for the brave.
Those human enough to show their lives
With something as simple, as elaborate,
As indiscernible scribbles, monumental abstractions.
I tell you now,
Under no scenarios
Is it acceptable to see no good.
Under no light,
Should we not speak of the truth--
Of this fight,
Still not believe me?
Live under critical scrutiny,
Die (in metaphor only)
And return to life only when you know
That art is not only subjective--
But when perceived right,
Nearly
Inconceivable...
