Where are you?
Why are you not why I am?
Why are you not in the brush?
Or the lens?
Or the pen?
Where are you?
When can I create you?
Painted in time;
in pictures;
in words.
If I were to wish for perfection,
to try and create it,
to mold it in my hands,
to uncover the canvas and see,
could I create perfection?
... or would perfection get the best of me?
photo via (we heart it)
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