Beauty. Found in the fragile curve of a cheekbone, a jaw, eyes that enchant.

Light falling aslant

across ethereally delicate skin.

The brush crosses the canvas, paint etching

shadows and depth.

It's imperfect, the vision in your mind far from that on paper.

You can't seem to capture it, the delicate taper

of a line,

the play of light and shadow that creates a world.

An artist, you want to give people a taste of the divine, something to rouse

emotion

and create meaning.

You haven't a notion

of how this urge came to be. You only know the stinging

refusal as your hands refuse to make imagination

truth.

Pure frustration

fills your mind. Perfection

is so near, yet still so damn far. It's like an infection

that nothing less than perfect can cure. Dejection

flings its web over you,

whispering lies and half truths

you fear may be your reality.

Is this the feeling

that pulled so many artists before you over the brink of insanity?

Or is it just vanity,

wanting more than what skill you were born with?

If beauty is subjective then is it real?

Chasing that unreachable ideal,

you're caught in an endless loop, no escape but through expression, wanting to feel more than the cold ice of depression.