The Artist In Me
One of my relatives, at my mom’s funeral viewing, I can’t remember who
Told me, in a feeble yet vivid voice, how my life will be much easier
Now that my mom is gone and that I can now concentrate on myself, for a change
And I just brushed it off, like how I brush, dusts off of my shoes
Because I knew that she didn’t know me very well, justifiably
Because she has never seen how my heart can open up, like a faucet
Because, she has never seen the depths of me with my passion
And how, in a good day or maybe even, on a bad day
They just, come, pouring out of it,
Come pouring out of me, like raindrops off of my eyes
Like trickles of tears from the murky clouds of the heavens
Like rain on a winter’s night
They are unstoppable
They have a mind of their own,
And they just naturally, come, as they please
And forgive me because I’m just a newbie at this myself
A baby who finally just learned how to appreciate the beauty of each drop
It’s funny because, I’ve always considered myself an artist at heart
Even when my heart has no such novelties to show for it
I’m that singer who can’t sing
I’m that dancer with two left feet
I am that painter who lacks paint
I am that writer who’s afraid of words
I am that poet who writes for no one in particular
But somehow, it just dawn on me like an eclipsing of the solar moon
That I am an artist because I believe in the authority of love
I believe in the language that all artists can understand by heart
And that my mom has always been inside it
She is the poet-extension of me
She’s my muse as well as my fuse
And so in regards to what one of my relatives once said
I really can’t contest any of it now
Because maybe she’s right in some form or another
But not because of my mom being gone
But because of how I feel every bit of my mom essence
Flowing inside the artist in me
December 20, 2015
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