You stare at an empty wall
It's perfect, completely smooth
You run your fingertips on it
Hesitating, not wanting to ruin it
But something catches your eye
An inky blotch stands out
Panicking, you run up to it
You try to rub it out, yet it stays
Suddenly, another one appears
Try as you might, it remains
Before you know it, they all spread
Many jet black spots grow on the wall
You want to cry.
The wall is imperfect now.
But the spots make lines
The lines make shapes
A masterpiece blooms in front of you
An array of fine details to make art
And now you really want to cry.
For when you look at yourself
You see the imperfections
But that's what makes us unique
Not only that, it makes us a…