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Poem

Is life truly an art or just a messy canvas I never asked to touch,
and death the same, a final brushstroke or just a fear hidden in dark corners?
I ask this because, if life is art, then I suppose I am an artist,
but shouldn't artists love what they create, find peace in their works,
not feel exhausted by them, not fear the end and the silence that follows?
They say there is beauty in chaos and meaning in every mistake made along the way,
but sometimes everything seems random, spilled colors, erased lines, no pattern, no plan, just tumult.
I keep painting because I don't know what else to do, because stopping would be worse,
but I don't know what I'm creating, and I don't even know if it matters anymore, if I care to ever find out.
They call this life and say to live with purpose, but how can I do that,
when my hands tremble and I don't know what the final image should be, what the heart should seek?
Is the true art learning to live with the unfinished, with broken lines, with parts that don’t connect,
and if death is art, then what kind of artist waits for the last line with fear, with silence,
with the wish that maybe they had never started, never touched that dream canvas?
Sometimes I think it’s not a painting, just a wall I leaned against for years,
waiting for it to open, but it never does, and I am too tired now to keep knocking
on something that never wanted to answer, on a door that was never there.
Perhaps the true art is accepting that not all questions have clear answers,
that sometimes beauty lies in the search, not in the finding, in the questions that keep us awake and alive.

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