Poem: Inefficient


Yes, it is a mess. No less than I.
all in search of the right color
at the right time, for a single brush stroke,
maybe two. An inefficient way to make a living,
worth the work.

About this poem.

All the things I do are inefficient. Dealing with hearts and emotions and brokenness; dealing with paint and words and your own flaws are always going to be inefficient.

But, when you fit all the elements together, those rare times, it is glorious.



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