I talk a lot about art.
My fingers never rest
They ache to hold
A pen, a brush,
Anything sharp enough
To carve thought into form.
I press my mind onto paper,
Spill ideas like blood.
Inspiration is a gift
But sometimes a curse.
That occupies my whole being.
Creation is not gentle,
Even I am afraid
Of what I make.
Line after line,
It turns into confession
The kind
I never meant to speak.