Being this young is art

It's the rash decisions, strange conditions, and wild admissions

It’s the delicate touches, midnight rushes, and feeling mushes

It’s the bright shapes of a Picasso and the tiny elegant dots of Monet

It’s the wild and crazy, the “you amaze me,” and the falling apart daily

It's the drunk on love, the high off life, and all of the above

It’s the deserted, western O’Keefe landscape and the bold, flashy yet subtle figures of Gaugin

Being this young is art

It’s the hours to master, this is a disaster, what would happen if i add this plaster?

It’s the fragile, delicate, broken strokes piecing together into a collage of after

It’s the one wrong move, crying on a bed

It’s the what ifs, everything would be fine if I had said…

It’s the joy of the wait

The anticipation out the gate

It’s the technicality

And the oops i messed up massively

It’s the “the night is still young”

And it’s the “who are these people I’m heading home”

It’s the “you mean so much to me”

And the rearranging priorities

It's the “I’m mad at you”

And the “oh no boo hoo”

It's the before and the after

The headache and the disaster

It's the awe and the hate

The awful and the great

It’s delicate and fragile

It’s careful but it’s facile

It’s beautiful yet tactical

Some may say

It’s a condition suffered by fools

It’s an affliction of the heart, an instigator of turmoil, a predator waiting to strike

But if it is, let me be a fool

I will lock my own door and throw away the key

For art still is

And being this young is art