Human Art Poem by Erin Cowart

There is an art to being human
And we are all horrid forgeries

Hollow, pretending at goodness
Rabid with the illusion of stillness

Inhuman, All

There is an art to being human
And we are colorless copies

Pretenders to the throne
Usurpers of love and beauty
Showing our alms in public
To mask our private vanities and shallowness

Inhuman, All

There is an art to being human
And we are flat, heartless

Senders of prayers and heartfelt wishes
Condolences and sympathies
While the frail and dying choke on sawdust
And the greed of corporations
Determines who lives and who dies

Inhuman, All

There is an art to being human
And we can barely hold the brush

Raging against pretend differences
Pleading for unity
While those who hold the reigns
Profit, plunder, and divide

Inhuman, All

There is an art to being human
And we paint in one monotonous color

Missing the gloriousness of the
Reds and Greens
We paint muted blacks and blues
Perfect in our blandness
Slaves to conformity

Inhuman, All

There is an art to being human
And we are fading lines on the canvas of time

Accepting average
We have become average
A small blemish on the face of
And immense eternity

Soon to be erased

Forgotten, All