Ever since my hands could grasp

I was doodling and drawing something.

I speak through my hands, not my tongue.

The raddling and shaking of my ideas within my skull

compel this hand to pick up a pencil and scribble. 

I must say, if it wasn't for art, I wouldn't want to see the light of day

or night. 

See, I was never graceful with 

words, 

or sports,

or people. 

All require tearing away a piece of you visage to expose 

a mere piece of self, and

that was something I couldn't do willingly on the spot.

 

Art:

The allowances to create visual manifestations of the things that plague my cluttered mind. 

Yes, I could be open with people through this medium, it's my form of communication.

Communication in which I can reveal the feelings clenching in my chest.

 

See, the pencil, it's more than just that. It's my sword, my piece of mind. 

It acts as a syringe, sucking all of my current anxieties out of my hand,

and splattering it onto the blank page. 

It's my safe place, my saviour, 

cradling my shaken heart, comforting my bewildered soul 

by letting me release the sickness,

the sickness of wordless emotions swarming and clashing inside me like wasps in an agitated

hive. 

It drains the built up annoyance and disappointments of mankind

and it's inability to understand that my sentences are broken and understated, 

for I cannot reveal my troubling thoughts to others on demand,

for I cannot always control the emotional overspills that torment

my conscious and subconscious mind.

 

Art helps me answer the questions that I do not have words for.

It alleviated the burden of not having a good enough answer for myself

or others

or the merciless curiosities that taunt me with excrutiating 

what ifs 

and whys. 

 

In my head, 

past the physical tangible matter, 

are thoughts, ideas, and aspirations swimming in the quicksand of possibilities.

I cannot see them clearly, but art

it rescues them from the abyss of my forgetfulness and projects each simplified on a once blank

page.

It heals the blindness I sometimes have to myself and others

because love and hate aren't blind, they're blinding.

 

Art: my joy, my excitement, and my essence.

I may not be an artist worth praise,

however, 

the stress relief given to me from art pacifies the wailing of wonder that rings in my ears.

Art gives a megaphone to the murmurs that get overlooked.

It gives me the booming voice I don't naturally have even when I scream.