Proper Art

As far are you're concerned, I'm just a pillar of words spoken to the world, for the most part unheard. But I don't really care all that much to be understood, it's not something I'd feel comfortable asking out of you. But I would not be surprised if other so-called artists out there would nervously chew their nails or try and fix their hair. Fretting because the world just doesn't 'get' them, yet to remain a proper artist, it's not proper to let them. It's best to be incoherent with all your linguistics, and write a thousand songs despite being entirely solipsistic. If you haven't guessed already, I don't really have a grasp of art. I see it as a word like love, worthless when pulled apart. Because art doesn't exist without a speaker and a listener, the speaker is shouted nearly hoarse, and the listener's a fidgiter. Because all they think about is how they want it for their own, the canvasses splattered indigo or the imagery held by the poem. In a realistic sense, they all want the fame. The world to praise them for this page cooked up in their brains. They'd be so quick to say their muse comes from the heart. They're right, it's pumping, throbbing, it's blood soaked art. The closest thing I can say is that it comes from the veins, spiderweb trails that pump life just the same. Because the trails that harbour each of the innumerable limbs are the same trails that linked mom and dad, she and him. Art is the blood pumping under our skin, sometimes thick and throbbing, sometimes scary thin. But it's what holds us together and fuels us through our days, though some art packed with dirt and plaque that's hard to wash away.