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March 3, 2019

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I'm not an artist (a sort of poem)

September 6, 2018

I remembered today something I recently forgot about art;

I remembered why I learned it in the first place. 

 

Here's what happened: I got lost.

I heard all the things that an "artist" is supposed to do and be,

I heard people praise me and I heard my own criticism in my head.

I heard questions about money and what I do with my time

and it all got twisted around and around until I was drowning and I forgot. 

 

"I'm not an artist," I said. 

"Why not?" My sister asked, "Don't you create art?" 

"I hope so. But I'm not an artist." 

I couldn't explain why

I'm not comfortable being called that. 

Like for the longest time I wasn't comfortable hearing my own name. 

 

"I am not an artist," I say. 

I don't know what I am, 

but I don't strive for perfection. 

I don't yearn to create something new. 

"There is so much here already, that we don't understand. What new thing could I possibly come up with? And why? What would it add?" 

It's not a criticism. 

Some people create things that are new 

and intricate 

and beautiful

and pieced together perfectly. 

But not me... 

 

I'm not an artist. 

 

So why did I learn it in the first place...

How to write... 

How to draw... 

How to dream... 

 

... If I'm not an artist. 

 

I remember again like I have in the past, 

That I learned to write because I couldn't speak, 

I learned to draw because words couldn't describe

The images that danced like ghosts in my mind. 

 

I don't want to create, to make something new;

There's something I'm saying... 

I want to tell you. 

 

Only words sometimes fail me, 

Hell, images do too.

I just want to share what's inside me 

with you. 

 

So please, Listen.

 

 

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