A Stroke of Perfection

I sat in front of an empty canvass the other day, Thinking of the perfect portrait in which I wanted to portray, I began, and subconsciously I preceded to perfect my stroke, Molding wonders until I hit a block, and my art began to choke, Attempting to find myself within the collage of thoughts my brain created, Getting weary though I watch my hands as they are unabated, I try to consummate my masterpiece, but I lacked proper formation, My creation was deficient without any present inspiration, Though the colors were all of beauty, I found no amazement in my work, I wanted to see the bigger picture, yet my eyes were consumed by murk, I introverted the inner thoughts within my mind, To grasp the feeling of a stunning work of art I'd hope to find, Restrained by the idea of what I felt to be perfection, Merely lacking understanding of my art's nonexistent affection, As I meditate on my shortcomings the image is surely clear, The raw emotion of my mental art is bigger than it appears, As I alleviate my mind, I close my eyes to find a clue, Mental images of your physical features start to cloud my view, I chiseled jaw, facial hair, a coat of chocolate brown or two, The perfect portrait lacks perfection without the image that is you.