Still a work of art

Rambling freestyle

I bought myself a book
and poured myself onto the page,
My life bled through the cover
and the words I wrote became an amalgamation of the reality I was forced to lead and the daydreams of a child who grew up too soon,
I waited for the day I'd see a beautiful work of art fall from my life and onto those pages,
I imagined a cascade of colour depicting my world and drawing in anyone who dared to look,
But Art and life are not so different,
It takes pain and suffering to make it worth seeing
and so my book became a tattered thing, the pages torn and stained
and it took me so long to realise that I'd done what I'd set out to do
and even longer still to realise that while it wasn't what I imagined
it was still a work of Art.

Author's Note

A late night rambling, sorry if this doesn't make a lot of sense