My art is rough around the edges.
Like me, like the way I sometimes feel.
It has its seasons and its draughts.
Somedays, it flows easily.
Too easily.
And those days scare me a little.
Somedays I have to ground myself in it,
be cautious and aware of each stroke.
Those days are the most peaceful.
But yet somedays feel like a forever,
between me and my palette.
I may not be an artist yet.
But there's art in me.
And I see it all around me.
It does not matter,
thhat I can't put a label on the way the brush feels in my hands.
Artist or not, I have a home in colors.
A place to lose myself, and sometimes to discover myself.
Infinte possibilities at the end of my brush,
sprawled like lightning strikes on my dirty desk.
The only thing I know are the songs in my head,
when I close my eyes and think of the next color.
It becomes a little easier to breathe,
when I am surrounded by the smell of paints.
Forever grounded to the carefree version of me,
with the added weight of a tube of color.
Everything falls into place,
the world stays still in a haze.
Everytime I hold a brush and paint,
somewhere in me is born a little girl.
Again.