For more or less, formless

An artist paints until their hand remembers a shape, then a style. Their work is then remembered for centuries, forever heralded in galleries. Mistakes shape the character of the one who makes them. An artist's memory shapes the style of the one who practiced. Mistakes are just as beautiful as art. They each have their own style. They are shaped by their maker, entirely unique to the one who owns them. So it can be said that you shape your mistakes by being exactly who you are. Where two people have gone wrong, it is likely it happened for different reasons. Where mistakes are beautiful, it is because of such, that... ...I've found myself to be an plain person. The linework of my character is as white as the canvas it lays on. I breath, yet, inherently—I am nothing. There is something on the canvas. I am as white as the canvas I lay on, yet, I am not the canvas. The white parts that do not make me still remain, the parts around me. I am not boring, yet, I am not entertaining to look at. I am unsightly. I am not as white as purity, I am as white as the ash that comes after death. The blankness of my hue is not as healthy as bones, or as reflective as a cloud of the sun that remains near. I am not as white as the whiteness of the heavens. Instead, I can only be as white as an experiment that came from it. A plaything of whatever controls human nature. A twisted idea of a human being that lives inspired by death. My eyes don't shine with the reflective whiteness of life, even in tears. I attract the eye with my unique appearance. As tall as the clouds. If you go where I reside, my canvas is too big to avoid. A gallery for one art piece, hosted by the city that traps me. I repel the eye the longer I am stared at, the longer I am known. The tale of myself tells itself to those that read into my art. At first, a beautiful story. A canvas you might travel to see. Though, I am no Mona Lisa. I interest only those that believe they need to see me. A tale that begins and ends with a mistake. For each page, each word has nothing but a mistake. The paragraphs that shape my story are— I start off beautiful, though, it sets it. For more or less, I am entirely composed of mistakes. Mistakes cannot shape the character of one who is composed of them. In other words, I am like a canvas with no painting. As dirty as the mistakes that came after my creation. Whatever dust settles on me deserves its place there. It has more of a place on me than love.