the caffeine is crucial for this day-time creature, the low-lit room an optional feature for my attempted artistic-flair paint brushes discarded on the floor i took up drawing, graphite stained hands and red eyes in the light of morning's sun through the cracked window of my old apartment-turned-studio it was that morning i realized the faces on paper would never come to life or serve a greater purpose than good looks and candy-to-the-eye it was that moment, i realized, there was much more than re-creation remixing and redoing redundant copies of someone else's idea and in that moment, when i realized, talent is subjective and in the general eyes of the artistic world, i was **** on the side of the street where van gogh and picasso strutted their dead-man's artistic *****. and now i know that there's got to be something more than staying up all night drawing from a photograph a classmate gave to my sight and earning ten dollars for every hour spent dragging pencils across leaf-thin skeletons of plants that could have grown to serve better. and now i know i was made for something more than sitting on my **** cold bedroom floor and replicating the eyes of a sixteen-year-old spanish self portrait photographer. in the western world, the people want me as an artist making prints of their faces and loved ones but for the rest? my hands are needed to build homes for those who have not had the privilege of holding a pencil or seeing their faces on a mere piece of paper.