I was born under a winter sun,
in the arms of towering palm trees,
painted with the loving hand of an artist.
I can still see that first baby photo—
a head full of dark hair, saucercup eyes.
A dopey sideways smile on my face, somehow
amused at my initial entrance into the world.

The photo is overexposed and taken by
hands shaking with happiness at the birth of their child.
It's a little blurry, the hospital fluorescents
lighting me up with their stark illumination.
But it is the beginning of a work of art:
my life, or the van Gogh piece of 1996.

Van Gogh was Post-Impressionist, you know.
In an evolution of the greatest movement
of all art movements, the one that went against
convention, against the naysayers, the insults.
Artists showcased the essence of the subject
through their quick brushes and wet paints.
Their colors melted into each other, intermingling,
creating vivid but ethereal images of
sunrises, towns and hillscapes. Of beauty.
Beauty, but not perfection.

Van Gogh did not paint to be perfect.
He painted in an eccentric, rough way;
disgracefully misunderstood in his own time.
But regardless, he continued on.
He painted because he wanted to show
how beautiful he believed the world to be.
The world in all its cracks and defects,
brought to canvas and handcrafted
into something flawless.

The notions of his vision shaped me.
Because I am no Renaissance or Baroque piece—
I am not grand and ornate, or gilded to prim prosperity.
I am no Mona Lisa, I wasn't sculpted by the
hands of Michelangelo. I am not smooth.
I am a bit ragged around the edges,
shaped by the sway of life and its pitfalls.
Despite this, I believe I am beautiful.

I too was painted by the hand of van Gogh,
given the idealistic nature of his Almond Blossoms,
and the disposition of his Sunflowers, accented by
the deep dark of his famous Starry Night.
I was transmitted up into the nebulas and galaxies,
filled with blue and white and black.
I was engineered to write and advocate,
to spread words like an artist does colors.
I am a quiet but powerful orchestration of
wide brushstrokes and fine details.

Though now I live amongst the winter snow,
in the crook of kaleidoscopic skies and cold air,
I still remember being painted by the loving hand of an artist.
My hair is still dark; my eyes more moonbeam than saucercup.
I still wear that dopey sideways smile on my face, somehow
upbeat despite the occasional melancholy.

My current photos are a bit undefined and taken by
hands shaky from the crossroads and cusps of life.
I am a little blurry, I think I might always be.
But that doesn't make me any less flawless.
Because I am the perpetual result of a work of art:
my own life, or the van Gogh piece of 1996.