You must strive for perfection,
minds lashed by the whips of yearning,
something foundation shaking,
consequence to self be damned.
You must be epic souls personified by your lives,
otherwise you'll just exist,
something to immortalise,
some crucial tale's new twist.
You must be living contradictions,
to walk as giants with humble footprints,
something to inspire the lost,
your art stealing the senses.
You must capture thought,
forging light in a furnace of burning life,
something that cannot be twisted,
spinning the coin to sphere blind both sides.
You must be yourselves all the while,
being actors away from the stage is the world's madness,
something bound by truth's pain,
relevance of past, present and future.
When I say you I mean but a few,
they know who they are,
those who toil while others sleep,
humble altruistic souls,
giving everything to give,
imparting beauty through their art.
We are born perfect,
as we grow we are given to believe,
that we are intrinsically wonderful,
when we think this,
we are not...we are intrinsically flawed,
with much sleeping potential,
we become wonderful,
by living our lives once more.
©David Nickle Read 2014
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