That sweet embrace.
That comforting hold.
So cold and distant,
yet burning with a passion
of a blistering fire.
It brings me tears,
not of tenderness,
not for its wild
and voracious appetite.
But because of the emptiness that I feel when I speak not its language.
Too long have I shut my creativity out,
refusing to sculpt my abilities, and instead
looking at my creativity as a waste of time and energy.
I have seen much time come and gone
since I last let my soul scream across an
empty canvas waiting to be woken up.
I must create.
I must live art.
My poor soul cries out for its life-blood.
Its cracked and jagged being
swoons to be heard, to be seen, to be felt.
Art is the language of my soul.
I don’t know what I would do
if I could not create,
to draw,
to paint,
to sculpt,
to write.
My hands and fingers
are the outlets of my creativity;
they allow me to put into shapes and images
what my soul is trying to get me to understand.
Without art I am heart broken,
as if my soul has been plucked
out of me
and a clump of nothingness
put in its place.
Why then, do I push myself away
from allowing my soul to sing?
Why do I become angry and limit my ability
as a form of self-punishment?
To what purpose does this actually help?
Without my art and creativity have I become a better person?
No, I have not.
I have suffered.
My soul has suffered.
I can no longer devalue my creativity
as a mere waste of time.
It is where my love sings, where my soul cries out.
Art is the language of my soul.
I pray I don’t forget this again.