I’ve never been an artist. I wasn’t born to hold a paintbrush in my hand. I’ve never felt the need to capture the reality I see with charcoal or pencil or oils or clay—I just haven’t. Some people stop seeing the world as it is and they change it with their art but I’ve never been an artist. When I see something beautiful I remember it and I learn from it but I see no need to recreate it. I don’t feel the urge to twist it. They say a picture is worth a thousand words but a fake one is only worth questions and I’d rather have the world be raw and blunt and unpolished than have people try and show me how they see it because I don’t care. A picture may be worth a thousand words but there are millions of words inside my head and I can show you everything you need to know with a question and some time to think because the world is not beautiful sunsets or rainy streets it is ketchup stains on trembling lips and empty backpacks soaked by faucets. It is a scarf wrapped too tight around a freckled neck; a goodbye kiss and a leather suitcase and everything in between. You can keep your charcoal if you want it and draw the smiles why I tell you all the reasons there are smiles to draw. The sunsets and the rainy streets exist but they are not important. They are the neon lights and the shadows they don’t reach but they do not highlight the people dancing in between. They are the best days and the worst but they do not show the days of effortless laughter over fractured dreams, messy hair and tear-stained skin. A picture is worth a thousand words but if you have a hundred good words a million pictures can be born. I’ve never been an artist, but I understand that the things that are real are invisible. They cannot be captured by a pen or reined in by a canvas. What everyone calls art could never be extensive enough, exquisite enough; real enough. No matter how many images you see there are always pieces missing. I’ve never been an artist. But if you hand me a paintbrush I will use it to write. I will use it to form the letters that form my life that form the world. And if you insist I can write the word ‘art’ but know that I don’t believe in the plainness of charcoal and paper I believe in the long nights curled up reading and the silent afternoons wishing your story was the same as one you’ve read. Or one you’ve written.

I'm not sure if I am empty or endless
endless sounds nice
it sounds like I capture the sea and the mountains
and you
if you walked far enough
your veins being your only road map

it sounds like I am every color and every song
and I can touch stars if I want to
breathing in the dust of planets
and getting Saturn's rings tangled in my hair

yes endless sounds nice
but I am so afraid
In being endless you will only focus on the craters I am on the moon
and the caves I am in the land
and the black depths of the ocean
(empty)

I am so afraid
that you will come to me for a drink
and will leave just as thirsty
with no oasis
no resting place
no me; with or without you
(empty)

i'm jealous
of the eyes
that get to wake up
next to you

they get to see
your peaceful face
connect the freckles
on your cheeks
like constellations

lightly brushing
their finger
creating a new sky
on your face

they get to inhale
your sweet scent
and feel right at home

they get to hear
your rough gravely
morning voice
whisper 'hi'

all i have
are the memories
and the empty side
on my bed
where you should be

all i do
is lie here
and wait for you
hoping
that one morning
that will be me again

*s.m

Little boy lost,
Among the valleys
And the fens.
Took shelter under cloak,
The elements to defend.

"Mother!"
"Father!"
He yelled into the air.
"Brother"
"Friends"
But there was nobody there.

The boy marched on into the torrent of the gale,
As tears entwined with rain
Drops.
Whispering forgotten tales.

Alone.

Kind of,

But the wind has a way of bringing the world to life.
As little boy lost shivers in the pale moonlight,
He comes upon a brook from the corner of his sight.
Just enough to make him stop.

Inquire,

"Where just is this stream among the mire?"

No matter where he looked, whether,
Left
                                          or       ­         
                                                                ­                       Right.
The stream remained unbidden,
Forever out of sight...






Forever is never as long as it seems,
When we are but young with youthful dreams.
The little boy no longer as lost as we.
Finds a guide in the sight of that once brook,
Now Stream
Meandering into that river to the sea,
Flowing tidal
Through waves of possibility.

This is my idea of freedom:
That in this moment, I am me
I can just be

By a field, surrounded by trees
With the golden beams of sunlight shining through
Each leaf, a different shade of green
Dancing gleefully to the beat of the wind

By the pavement where weeds and wildflowers grow
Creeping through the concrete, dressing the ground
With a million speckles of yellow and white
In their simple grace and little heights

By the feathery cat tails and clovers
Listening to the gentle breeze, the crunch of leaves
With the cool scent of the air and warmth of the sun
A moment of impact, like the sound of a gun

That in this moment I recognise
With absolute clarity I realise
That in this moment, I am me
I can just be