Few look at art without appreciating the imperfections.
You know my favorite part about live music? –
It’s the rawness.
It’s the smoothly played-off wrong notes
And the imperfections of the intonations
That assure me that this is raw talent
And not some artificial bullshit.
So why would I want some manufactured love?
Love should be organic!
It’s not when she’s all made up
That I find her most beautiful.
It’s when I can feel the artist’s anguish
In the hasty brushstrokes of her hair
Fist thing in the morning.
The depth of the dramatic tones
In her eyes.
Perfection gets old
And is all too generic.
To the connoisseur of art,
Nature’s subtle brush
Has done more for her
Than Any manufactured cosmetics
Could ever do for anyone.
You’re average fella
Could walk through the fucking Sistine Chapel
And just see four walls
And an Oversized ceiling.
That’s why you should always date an artist.
They can see more than mere flesh.
That’s why I can walk through her soul
And see endless colors
Painting her inner walls
And a limitless ceiling
Where I see her hand reaching out to the stars above
Because her bounds are nonexistent.
Her ceilings are an illusion
That any good artist can see right through.
She’s one hell of an artist herself.
No matter the stoic expressions on my face,
She could paint a smile on my face
In any way she’d like.
One whisper from her lips
Could paint my cheeks
Of her lust.
One slash of her paintbrush nails
Down my back
Will leave streaks of her wrath.
Sometimes her gluttony
Might emboss my chest
In ravenous teeth marks
Until she splashes her viscous paint
Across my loins.
The way her watercolor eyes
Look into mine,
And we both know
We’ve painted a goddamn masterpiece.