Art is born on fire.
A miraculous spark.
A divine appointment.
Its only desire,
release.
Art is beast that lives in your chest,
clawing to get out.
Best to accept this inherent truth
and let it run to the farthest corners of your heart,
nearly out of site,
where wonder lives.
Then have the courage to let it live outside of you
amid the chaos
where it will take root in another—
encouraging similar release.
Art shuns a template.
It cares nothing about a word count.
Nor syntax.
Nor any medium upon which it is placed.
It just wants out.
Art doesn’t give a fuck about awards.
Nor sales.
It doesn’t exist to be judged.
It exists to be felt.
An when it doesn’t move you,
move on.
You weren’t the audience.
Criticism is wasted breath.
Art doesn’t care.
Because its form is always perfect.
Saturn Devouring His Son, Goya
***
