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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 13, 2013

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Submitted: March 13, 2013





All human beings would like to be artists,

When it is, surely, impossible,

For any to be able,

To create, the human needs to be inspired  it  is one of his old habits.

Well on this matter I have a theory,

I say the human can’t be an artist,

For the simple reason that he is himself a piece of art made by golden fists,

And what he is producing is only a metaphor of his own soul and its glory.

The human never creates he only transposes,

The transcendent strength of the art which runs in his veins,

Look at nature,

Look around you,

And you will see that in his philosophical madness Spinoza said something true,

All nature is the production of an artist,

You can capture his style,

With which all emerges,

We are all,

Made by a magic touch,

Which illuminates the world,

With bright pastels and foolish colors,

And you can feel,

And you can make one feel,

Isn’t it the purpose of art?

To feel and awake the feeling,

 I don’t know what you think of it,

But for I am impressed,

By what every day I see,

I shall say that either it is a great mistake,

Made by a hand which is blind,

Or the invention of a dreadfully intelligent mind.


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