Hi! So this is a poem I wrote when I was thinking about things like beauty, people, and definitions, and how we know what something is but we cannot define it. I thought about how certain people were considered "beautiful," and how people like definitions because it makes them feel like they've grasped a concept that they cannot understand, but by defining it they feel like they have. Please tell me what you think and give me suggestions. Thanks!
What are people?
What are we after you erase the molecules and matter that make up our existence?
Only to see us in our purest form,
our souls, only these conceptual things that make us.
Are we art?
They encased the painting in flesh
and bones
and splattered blood all over it,
until we cannot tell if it is art.
But then again, what is art?
Is it the little things that we notice,
piecing together to make something bigger?
We put paint on paper
and encase it in a frame
calling it art
because you cannot touch it,
cannot feel it,
because it is in a box
and therefore considered important.
We know what art is,
but we do not understand it.
Is art beauty?
But then again, what is beauty?
We make up definitions for these conceptual models that we ourselves cannot understand
and yet we do not pause for a moment and ask ourselves why,
why we must have a definition for everything,
why we must put something in a box and call it art.
