Creative License

I thought I was an empty page, and waited for a poet's thoughts to fill me.
I thought I was a canvas, clean, and craved a painter's brush to shape me.
I thought I was acoustic silence, and yearned for one perfect chord to free me.
The poet's words lacked substance.
The painter's stroke was flat.
The music never touched me.
Though graceless, and devoid of style, my page has now been written.
My canvas, messy swirls of watercolor, obscure, lacking hints of promise.
A concert of cacophony surrounds me, resounds in me, with incessant loudness.
In my search for perfect artistry, I have lived a life mundane.