bring out the ink, cover the page,
pools or creativity leak onto the desk.
you are incredible,
skill, abilities; boundless.
the sky's the limit and you’ve painted it with ten shades of blue.
brushes vary from size and shape,
pencils range in darkness and texture.
you create tones and shades,
different worlds, different beings present themselves;
bringing new things to existence,
making old things seem new.
you are an artist.
you create.
you, yourself, your art form,
a weapon.
skillful and sharp, utility.
along with your tools,
your training.
you too can become a weapon,
of mass creation.

-j.p.

Artists minds
Have fragile souls
The delicate way
We pen our words
Shows our vulnerability

We bare our scars
Triumphs
Hopes and dreams
To heal the pain
Of our wounded hearts

We must create
For our own understanding
Self-discovery
To process the turmoil
And calm our fears and anxiety

Tattooing our thoughts
On our readers minds
Letting each person who reads
Carry a piece of the pain with them
Until there is none left

Clouds of ****
Rain an eerie reminder
That I crave a passion

Though I reside
In an emotion
that solidifies

It causes me
to regret
and run

Hindering my performance
Flaky to the core
Refusing inspiration

Am I the,
Artistic type?
The one who sees the world through a different lens
who turns sounds into colors
and sites in to Smells
into feeling
and two children running are not children running
they’re Happiness
Joy
their giggles turn into Yellow and Pastel Pink
turn to Sunshine
turn to Waking
turn to Serenity
Relaxing on the beach
where you can hear the baby blue and white waves
and see the soft calming sand slipping through your fingers and toes
turning to…

Maybe-- I am the,
Partying type.
Ragers
Dance Grinding
music Pounding
the same beat of our heads
of our bodies
flashing lights
the dark and the heat
Wild
Drinking Screaming
loving one another with our bodies
not caring who it is
because
our bodies don't care
if we are in sync
what is the difference
the same…

What if I'm the,
Frantic type?
the Busy type
Scrambling, Rushing
time is something I don't have Time for
running is my Past
if only I had Passed Time
noise flies by
not looking anywhere but straight
car horns, buildings, wind blowing
the sound of friction across my own skin and the skin of those like me.
that is my Familiarity
Air I do not Breathe
it flows through me.
it hits me and I consume it
I do not Break for it
I cannot Break for it
I…

How about,
the Silent One?
nose in a book,
hearing the voices in the background.
looking up occasionally, to see the others.
see their confusion.
their Hindsight is my Foresight,
I understand what will happen before it does.
because,
I've seen it before,
I can look ahead,
see the outcome,
slow down the world like it's a video in an editing software that I can stop.
Slow down.
Rewind.
Rewatch.
that I can…

Perhaps,
I am all of them.
Perhaps,
it doesn't matter.
I can turn the sounds rushing by me hitting my skin into color
I can separate time into partying and people watching
Both are possible.
life doesn't have to pass in one form,
it can be Technicolor
and Beautiful at the same time.
sound can pass into colors
and life can either Fly
or Pause-- and drag on.
Either way, it's okay--
because it's me.