Everyone stands in front, arms crossed,
eyes heavy with expectation, seeking meaning.
They poke, prod at brushstrokes, at silence,
hoping to excavate some grand revelation,
like peeling petals from a flower, dissecting
beauty until there’s nothing left to hold.
But art doesn’t need to explain itself,
it doesn’t owe you coherence or clarity.
It only asks to be felt, unraveled softly,
not like a riddle, but like a sunrise.
Something quiet crackling just under your skin,
a memory surfacing, a melody you hum.
Your chest swelling for reasons you can’t name.
That is the point—what blooms inside you.
Stop chiseling at it; just let it be,
for every heartbeat it gifts is enough.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: January 26th, 2026 11:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Friendship
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Comments2
A shared emotion about art Gray very well stated and a fave
A shared emotion indeed my friend
Your poem revolves around the relationship between art and the viewer. It emphasizes that art's value lies not in its ability to provide clear explanations or answers but in the emotions and sensations it evokes in the observer. Your poem encourages a more intuitive engagement with art rather than a cerebral or analytical approach.
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