He sat on the cold, wooden floor,
His only source of light a dim lamp outside
He was shivering from the cold but that didn't matter
As long as his words were given life

The quiet sound of the pen hitting the paper
The notebook being the only thing he owned
Yet so treasured
A portal to the past

Some pages were torn
Seen as useless
But so truly beautiful
As they gave character to the brown notebook filled with nonsense

Exhausted with his work
He fell asleep in the middle of a word
The pen slowly tracing a line down the page
Only for it to be found, another reason to shame the boy
For that he is different

If I stay a nervous bud
my full bloom will not encroach upon the grandeur of another
& I will invite no retribution
Though the artist in me knows
that a whole field in bloom
Pollinates the world.
Bloom with the artists.

If I stay silent
my words cannot be smithed into a weapon of censure,
and be used to cut me into smaller pieces.
Though the poet takes my words
& alchemises them
into an elixir for healing.
Speak with the poets.

If I smother my fire
I inspire no ire from neighbouring Suns
for whom my shine is a punishable theft of thunder.
Though a sister moon mirrors my light and illuminates the next.
Shine regardless.

If I stay in my armour
my vulnerability cannot become the missile launched at me
by the traitor who begged for my truth
Though an ally reveres my courage
and meets it with the honour of their own open heart.
Open, even though.

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world is mesmerized by your majestic show
Countless watched as you conquered those conflicts
All they saw was the greatness as you grow.

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world is fooled by your flamboyant show
Beneath the surface, scarred and beaten
Unaware of the bloodshed braved in the low

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world should not be of worry to whatever you show
Your hidden battles, a courage untold
May we raise a glass to the healing you bestow

She was an artist
but not how
most people
think of artists.
She wasn’t a painter,
nor a sculptor.
Not technically

Her instrument was her paintbrush,
her breath the paint.
The rhythms were her design,
the notes her colors,
the world her canvas.

The paper was her pottery wheel,
the words her clay.
Stanzas were her shape,
punctuation her indentations
and publishing her kiln.

she painted with music,
and sculpted with poetry
she made sound come to life,
made poems sing

Most say she’s only a musician
and a writer.
Some will at least give her poet.
but I’d argue
She’s an artist

i am drowning.

the work is becoming me.

i am not living
moment to moment
but task by task. my phone is
a long list of numbers and names,
and they all need me now,
now, now,
and yesterday and tomorrow,
but i rank them,
because life is a long
list of ranking and doing,
but the ranking is a chore
already, and i get tired,
my feet sink up to
the **** of my ankle,
and i'm no further ahead
than i was before,
the same spot, just
a few inches lower,
a few pounds heavier.

i am in no condition
to write.
so i smoke, i
let the spirit run
all through me,
and through him,
i find the second
mask of mine that
loves to write letters.

i am drowning
in letters.

the list swells,
shifts, squirms
in my hand.
every screen begs
me to write to it.
and everyone's got
a different medium,
language, favor,
passion and preference.

i am thanking and apologizing.
i am scheduling and dismissing.
i am losing steam trying to
wear all these hats; i
am sinking, i
am sinking, i am
sinking, i am sinking,
i am fifteen people at
once, all singing and
stepping on themselves,
i am so noisy, and grateful.
i am so sickeningly small.

i am drowning.
i am grateful. i
am swelling; i am
building an image;
i am becoming. it
is so uncomfortable.

it is night when i finally
sit to paint. these are the
things that sell and yet i
feel so much like a glass
jar already stuffed full
of change. nothing to
show for it yet though.
so i put the
ink in a big
circle on the
canvas and i
crawl inside it
and it is warm
and soft and
unforgiving
and it doesn't
expect a thing
from me but
color.

I'm an artist.

I feel everything. Nothing is too small or too big in my world. I'm an artist. I write and create, I dream and fantasize, there is music in my dreams. There's color everywhere. I'm an artist, I feel more than I see. There's magic where I'm from.

I sing with the birds every morning. I hum the softest notes. I'm an artist. Life is a musical to me. There's music everywhere. I'm an artist. I live for life, and I live for moments. I live for meet cutes and roses. I live for glitter and purses. I live for shoes and jackets. I live for power and strength. I live for music, poetry, and films. I live for heartbeats and strings. I live for the plot.

I'm an artist, I strut about like a lioness. There's no fear in my veins, only chords. In thee end, behold angels applauding, and singing, standing ovation, lights everywhere. Glitter on my face with my yellow sequin dress, floating up above. Standing ovation. I'm an artist and when the Father meets me, I will sing, "I have lived. I have lived. I have lived. Indeed I had fun."

I'm an artist. I have me, I have it all. ✨️I have it all✨️.

Art is a creature—built

from bones of failure, tied

with tendons of tireless days, wrapped

by fiber upon fiber of hopeful nights, filled

with blood of laughter and despair, pumped

by a heart in a beloved cage, neglected

at the behest of a brain—crawling

through a maze, trying

to stumble and walk

and run and jump

and fly and

land