Looking into the eyes of little me

I see the spark of life.

Experimenting with paper and marks,

in perfect solidarity.

in chorus they would chant,

"She's a tiny Monet,

A real prodigy that one is."

Encouragment was all i heard,

Until it was time to grow up.

 

Oh how paper does burn.

Pictures cannot stand the test of time,

Nor Sparks.

Crushing a kids dream

they dowsed my flame.

It was time to decide my life.

 

I was confused,

Had I not?

Did I not make it obvious?

Years spent printing,

And painting,

And cutting,

And pasting.

 

This is who I am.

This is who I choose to be.

Your opinion isn't going to change that.

I am me.

I am an Artist.

 

Now I'm forced to lie.

With the ones I love miles away.

I'm a doctor to be,

or a dentist,

or a surgeon,

The more they know might hurt them.

They made me love my art.

They made me who I am,

But now I can't tell them.

Who I am displeases them.

 

Now all I have are memories.

Like pictures in my mind.

They whirl around like color reminding me.

The spark of life is still inside.