I am an Artist who feeds off the emotion of the world.
Paintbrush in one hand, chapstick in other,
I am quite the complexed girl.
Some call me irregular or uncommon to the eye,
but as I sit here to write this poem the mystery becomes no lie.
I walk the streets of Harlem hands in pocket, eyes open.
Headphones in my ears praying and hoping
to cross a path where the flowers bloom.
I take deep breaths in and my power I consume.
I imagine my fingers touching the easel to paint a weasel or a Mona Lisa that is.
I cannot be content with my work because a reflection I whiz,
of the struggles of my people as their sneakers cover the lines
that draw lines in between whites and blacks, for I am not colorblind.
I just choose to be pro black and not anti-white.
Langston Hughes is my brother and so is Brian McKnight
Britney Spears is my idol, I cherish Garth Brooks
Taylor swift and Marvin Gaye wrote chapters in my book.
My art is my mouth, but this picture I can’t paint.
I must turn away from the easel and head to the sink,
where the pinch pots lay and the kiln is hot.
I pace myself to mold and yet behold a turtle for my tot.
I am an artist who is creative with sound
Yet I followed the yellow brick road and ended up on a greyhound
To an institution that was no substitute for me. Found no desire to write so I attempted to read.
But in the process of reading I lost all power once consumed.
My pictures I couldn’t get out; for my voice was not immune
to the silence of strangers when I stood on a stage
to speak about my black statue of liberty which Jessica Care Moore enraged.
For I am not expected to be an artist.
Like Picasso with paintings I am not divine.
But with words on a paper I am graded out of 10, a nine.
The lyrics to my song not many understand.
I dare to be different.
I am a woman who is compassionate for Ailey and of his works I weep.
Money can’t buy happiness and fame won’t develop in a week.
I educate myself through my fear.
Possibly a freshman in college when I should be a junior year.
So I pinch my pot again because a turtle will not do.
This time I aim for a heart shaped helium-less balloon
And through it my insecurities fly away.
I can save painting a mindless Da Vinci for another day.
Hopefully the kiln doesn’t blow up because bubbles equal epic fail.
Either way I am still an artist because I am a writer and I write well.
I am no Janis Joplin or Alicia keys
But the tune of my words will help others to feed.
Feast that is on the option of being diverse.
Eclectic in retrospect my dances I rehearse.
On the corner I dropped my purse.
Out came fifteen cent.
All I have is a dollar and a dream but my work is so precious, my dollar is well spent.
I may have failed at my sculpture, my garden and what you call art.
But my words are my life and from this keyboard I will not part.
Maybe just for now because through this poem I’ve proven to be
an artist in many areas: trumpet, step, screen play even a lil Hugh Laurie.
I can sing like Whitney and act like Forest.
If you give me a chance to show you, you will see I’m all for it.
Just because I prefer to write my pictures instead of using water colors and fruit,
I refuse to be classified as an amateur or out of the loop.
You see talent comes in many forms and my talent defines me
I am an artist, I Am an artist. I Am an Artist
and my art desires to speak.