where is my art

there are those who find comfort in creating and those who die a meaningless existence and between those lie who does not hold purpose. there was something about paint and the canvas and the art and the artist and something my friend said it was honest raw deep so full of life but to my eyes its everything but that the colors are not one i find solace in the strokes are not one i can relate to i cannot blame the art when i hold not an eye for an interpreter and art is not my comfort. there are those who bled each day just to dry their eyes with pen and stab their eyeballs so they could write as they did to feel as much as they could and still read these verses i read these proses with no remorse no guilt no regret no emotion for those who felt so many of them and my friend said literature was true painful evoking of something but i still could not relate and literature is not my comfort