The Death of Description


Some people contest with me about my own identity,

As if I were a defined word they knew, that I was not keen on understanding.

They present to me a lexicon of attributes;

A description. A life story.

They paint me as a reflection of their words, allowing those adjectives to form facial features and concrete characteristics.

I don't even get a chance at my own definition.

So why do those words fly when they meet my own?

Because not one word could ever match the sound my eyes make when liquidating their sorrows, letting them touch my lips, singing whispers of solace,

Your words could never shape the curve of my smile in the light of the moon when I dream in dense darkness,

Letters could never coil in the different curl patterns of my hair,

No words could even manifest they way my fingers kiss my lips when someone begins to read one of my pieces aloud,

Phonemes and morphemes could never accurately delineate the aching hunger that assumes my body for the creation of art.

To be limited by a picture and its angle could never suffice and words, though elaborate and sound, could never truly capture a human's soul.

I am undefinable by definition

I am more than a description

I am more than words

I am masterpiece theatre

I am a complex masterstroke of Degas

I am an unorthodox classic

I am a creation of art.

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