I may not be gifted in painting
I may not be taught, like the masters, how to ‘properly’ create
But with my words, unsteady and scribbled, flawed and broken,
I paint canvases beyond sight.
I imagine art more beautiful than any Mona Lisa,
I create masterpieces without ever dipping my brush.
My craft is greatly imperfect, cluttered, and poorly expressed,
But still I attempt to write the words that sit waiting deep within my chest
Often I do not understand what I write,
but I must allow my fingers to scrawl each thought
For each word, each story,
is an expression of myself;
a world in all its beauty and ugliness,
and I must share.
Even if no one is listening.