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

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.