| |
About This Poem
I, Artist
Soft spring winds, or a harsh winter's freeze
we all write in our version of simplicity
an artist makes passionate love to his canvas
a musician strikes cords in longing hearts
With this moment of our very being
we give birth to what is hiding
the mixture of people and their dreams
with an artist heart we see them clearly
Every minute of every single day one cries
look at me, see who I am, create my destiny
through eyes that see in every color, we dare to dream
giving birth to that part of our personality
Our thoughts are alive, begging, for sweet release
no one understands who we are, or all those who live inside
but an artist soul can be bestowed in imagery
some of us kill them, stab them with our quill, or brush
Some make love to them for extended lengths of time
as creating a bust out of clay, removing what is hated
we add, we take away, but in the end it breathes
and each of us knows of that work, we call a dear friend
We go where no feet dare to tread, our very souls bleed
the parts that are kind, evil, sexy, smart, ignorant, or unheard of
this is the stuff life is made of to we
the many personalities that live within us all
delivered by the artist who dare to dream
the un-thought of...
|