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 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
So please, Listen.