This Artist
I am an artist.
I do not draw
I cannot paint.
Creativity, this brush of mine
Has no media yet to use
To dip into.
But still I am an artist.
When courage fails the heart prevails
Creativity seeping from cowardly pores
Overwrought synapses trying
Trying to hard
To find out what to paint
How to paint
Which paint to use.
I should follow that heart and
That brush and not hide
Behind uncertainty and excuses!
I don’t know what to do
With my talents, with my brush.
So what if I rally behind
Passion rather than paralysis?
Let the brush take over and
Stroke its canvas forcefully?
What if I find
In the unknown
Curiosity rather than fear?
Then is the test
When the music stops
When the utensil has been used
When my brush stills
Will the words yet ring true
Will the emotions hold solid
Against the tugging of the world
This way and that
For those who do not wish to understand
Who hold their own against the profound
And stretch the meaning to fit themselves
Will the faithful and observant listener
The one who desperately wants
To believe you
Will she find the artist had
The bravery to shine through
And boldly whisper
What the world wants not to hear?
When the unpopular has been spoken
That which is guaranteed to be
Ill-received?
What is it that the artist has crafted this
That beauty has taken on a discarded
Skin
Has the artist truly been bold and
New
And paradoxically correct?
Is she noble or simply passionate?
To be misled in a tempest of emotions,
To show truth in a new light
That is not true at all….
This is not a fear.
This is The Fear.
Artists shiver and
Rightfully so
Because art is not for changing truths
Art is for changing how we look at truths
To get to a deeper truth
And to understand completely.
But we never will fully comprehend
Every truth to be known.
I am an artist and
When I discover my inspiration
The media which I should use
I will run with it
Knowing that truth will rule
The Day
Not mere mortals, not the passionate artist.
We will just be, and that
Will reveal truth enough for all.