Do You Consider Yourself a Masterpiece?

Slightly interesting fact about me: I really like to write poetry. I don't get to do it as often as I'd like, and I'm no Robert Frost, but there's just something about making words come together that gets me really excited. I especially like it when I feel like I've written something that will brighten someone's day and remind them of how ridiculously loved they are. One poem that reminds me of this is Psalm 139, which famously states: "For you created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well" (Psalm 139:13-14). So, I figured I'd try to incorporate this truth into a poem of my own. It's intended to be more of a spoken word thing, but since no one wants to see a video of me yelling at them, the script itself is just going to have to work. I really hope it makes you smile!

Do you consider yourself a masterpiece?

Because you know,

We live in a world where it’s easy to feel like a stick figure scribbled on scrap paper

With stubby, broken crayons,

That not even a child will pick up because the colors just aren’t

“Pretty enough.”

 

Because somehow,

We’ve all fallen captive to the presupposition

That the “best art” has to be made out of the “best stuff,”

And that only an intricate physique painted delicately on a sterile white canvas

With paint so pungent, and so bright that its pigments have to be diluted with water

Is worthy of being plastered onto the walls that we build

To detain, to disdain, to disguise, and to deprive ourselves

Of the universe that lies beyond the interior

Because we’ve decided that no one out there in the vastness

Would stand up at an auction and scream over the hushed murmur of the other bidders

Just to hold us in their soft hands and whisper

“Mine.”

 

But then, I look at you,

And I realize,

We’re wrong.

 

Because you, my dear

Are the best art,

The kind of masterpiece that deserves to be on exhibition under the fluorescent lights of an uptown gallery,

To be admired by the glimmering gazes of passersby,

Who stand in awe of the way the colors run together in all the right places brushstroke by brilliant brushstroke,

And to finally be bought at a price of nothing less than a thousand gold coins

Of love and gentleness,

To be emblazoned above the crackling embers of a warm fireplace,

In a home with transparent walls

In a universe of your very own.

 

But yet somewhere in the blurred lines between

Beauty and brokenness,

I’ve lost sight of what the “best stuff”

Really is, and I’m honestly not sure that I know anymore,

But I do know that whatever you’re made of is pretty spectacular,

Like the shimmering dust of the earth that glistens on your bare feet,

And the splendid sunshine that brings out the streaks in your hair,

And the way your soft voice breaks the earsplitting silence,

And the music that exudes from your sympathetic soul.

 

And maybe you’re made of some things that you like to conceal,

To confine to the sketches crumpled up under your bed because you didn’t want to call them art,

Like the scar you got when you stepped on a rock while trying to dance in a thunderstorm,

And the icy rain that falls from your eyes and sometimes blurs your vision when you drive,

And the way you still wake up with cold sweat in the middle of the night because you could never quite kill the monsters in the closet, 

And the shards of glass, sitting in your soul, that the music couldn’t replace when the world handed you heartbreak.

 

But I don’t care if it isn’t always the “best stuff,” or the “brightest paint,”

Fight through the cobwebs festering under your bed, take out those sketches,

And tattoo those flaws on your sun-kissed skin,

Because you, my darling,

Are fearfully, and wonderfully made,

Knitted together with the silvery threads of

Beauty and brokenness,

Woven into the greatest mess of a masterpiece,

The kind that isn’t yet complete.

 

And so if you’re ever asked to draw a self-portrait

And you scribble a stick figure on scrap paper

With stubby, broken crayons

That come in colors you just don’t think are

"Pretty enough,”

Then I will proudly plaster it over the cracks in my crumbling walls,

But then I will sit down at my cluttered desk and write you a poem to say

“You are so much more.”

You are so much more than the person the world will make you out to be, and you better not forget it.