Art is like rain.
We let it splash all over the canvas,
We are thunderous, cloudy storms, pouring out our overabundance of emotion.
We curl into blankets, soft and safe.
We curl our toes to the eerie whispers in our ears, that try to taint our art.
Nothing could stop me,
Not even my own self sabotage.
I am not the strongest, but my creativity gives me power.
Like a sort of magic.
Unexplainable, because our emotions don't make sense.
That's how they make sense.
So I curl in my blanket, with my curled toes and sing until the whispers flee, and my mind is cleaned.
My doubt and insecurities gone.
I let my storm strike up again.
Hear my thunder storm cries!
I yell to be heard!
But my shouts are not throat ripping,
or gut wrenching.
I sing in a soft melody, or a bright symphony.
Whichever I choose,
My art is released.
From pent up inside -about to burst- to a gushing waterfall.
My art pours itself out, like a thick can of paint being dumped into its container.
I am not the artist,
because art is its own living thing.
Thriving, booming, growing.
I am merely the vessel in which it uses.
Like tree branches spreading out, reaching towards the sun from their rooted spot in the ground.
I am the brush,
I am everything, because when I pour out my deepest secrets, I can connect with it all.
It's all a metaphor.
I become the piece, and the emotions, and the paint and the ink.
I can become anything.
Time moves by too fast, you're getting older and so is what you love.
So is your art.
The longer you look at it, the more you hate it.
And my favorite word:
Even as you sit and work, you see it come together and it's like falling out of love.
One second it's all you can see and feel, but now,
Is this really what I poured out?
You question your ability and talent.
Art isn't always going to be loved.
It isn't always meant to be.
Sometimes, art is you just screaming.
Because art is a reflection of the human condition.
So if you would like to scream, and be a thunder filled cloud for a while.
Curl your toes, and grab a blanket, and go right ahead.
Cause sometimes we have to give up our bodies, and let the art use us.
We get so filled up that it demands to be poured out.
And you find yourself sitting at your keyboard pounding and pounding and pounding, like the rain on the roof, that you don’t even have because it’s California and it never rains here.
So, be that rain.
Pound, break, express.
Cause we are art.
We are artists,
we are clouds,
we are waterfalls,
we are songs.
We're what we create.