Art is a lesson for both its creator and those who admire it.
With every soft brushstroke, carefully selected synonym,
or drawn out note, the artist learns a new way to create,
a new way to evoke emotion from others by ripping it
straight out of their own chest. An artist can do this with
a graceful combination of ease and effort. Those who see
the canvas, read the pages, or listen to the melody, are only
able to grasp the pieces of the pain that are reflected within
their own souls. Inside, we are all fragments of the same
shattered mirror. Its glass once reflected only the face of God,
but now it reflects parts of us. Does it still show God’s visage?

Are we God’s art? Were we a lesson for the all-knowing? Does
even our creator learn from our mistakes, flaws, imperfections?

Let your true colors shine brightly
as you wear them with pride.
Spread your colors across yourself,
your surroundings, your life!
Let your personality be itself,
regardless of the words of others
or the criticism of those who don’t
love you! You should love you!
In every messy stage, in every
dull moment, and in every bold move,
love yourself! For you are a painting,
my love! As both art and artist,
become your own creation. We are here
to admire the beautiful masterpiece
that the artist intended along with every
glorious mistake and mishap
that made its way into the final piece!
You are a painting, my love.
Create yourself.

A candle sputters, releasing the scent
of cinnamon and apples. Inspiration ignites
within the poet’s mind, like a lit flare.

Passion cooks within her, simmering ideas
like stir fry. Joy sparks from her fingertips
as she types. Her digits blaze across
the keyboard in fiery bursts. Her words
flow out of her like wildfire, consuming
the empty page. A pyre of text appears
on the screen. She fiercely feeds the flame.

Poetry and prose emerge like a phoenix
from the ashes. The warm glow of contentment
surrounds her as she admires her work.

The fires of creation are burning through her.

The day they lower me into the dirt,
I want to be remembered by my work.
One day when I am six feet under,
I want my treasures torn asunder.
I won’t need riches, wealth, or money.
After all, it’s kinda funny.
They won’t follow me to hell.
I want to be remembered well.
May my art lead others to glee.
May my work make others free.
After all, what’s the point, if it all ends with me?
Art and creation are for confronting mortality.

Spots of ink adorn my hands.
I hope my writing crosses the lands.
With joy and tears following its path,
I hope it inspires someone’s inner wrath.
Today, I’ll write like lightning struck me.
Tomorrow, they’ll read what I wrote and see
The truth lies on ink-filled pages,
Written by these unknown sages.
Together, the ink, it will congeal,
Making truth and making life real.

Where does art come from?
It comes from pain for some.
Others find it in joy or glee.
Some are struck by creativity.
Regardless of its origins,
Art is where humanity begins.
Drawing, writing, even dance.
Any art form is romance,
With the universe and the world.
A timeless tango forever twirled.
It’s the greatest story ever told.
Art is worth more than gold.

Sometimes we wanna make something.
But we really just want to cry.
Maybe creating tears is still creating.

Creating love,
Creating light,
Creating dark,
Creating night.

Maybe what matters more is the fact that
there’s a product rather than what we produce.

Surrounded by beads and notions,
she creates with no hesitation.
She is struck, like lighting,
by the fires of creation.

Art is living,
art is healing,
art is thinking.

Art is showing our essence,
in every stage of life,
in our own unique way.

Art is expression,
of the inner self,
of the emotional realm.

Art is emotions,
it is feelings,
something profound,
something free of mediocrity.

Art is loving,
kissing,
and caring.

Art is fighting through life,
facing the bad,
embracing the good,
and cherishing it all.

Art is your parents,
who cared for you
and gave you unconditional love.

Art is music,
those two notes
that make your heart burn with passion.

Art is walking through life,
grateful,
smiling,
without greed.

What is your art?

You would say something about the push and pull of every day. And we would plop down with ideas. Think of this and think of that.
Throwing words like imagine and wouldn't it be amazing out into the open. You would even make plans, with patterns and colours for something to go on your wall, your own wall, whenever you'd have a wall. How many of those open docs do you have on your computer, with half-finished chapters and riveting denouements? I know it's hard to believe the people we once used to be. And sometimes fistfuls of carpet can feel like your only way to grip onto the world. Sometimes it feels easier to tear yourself limb from limb than look for your voice. It feels easier to sink into your bed, asleep or searching for sleep than to walk the miles ahead. Waking up every morning, de-shelling yourself, and stepping outside of who you are and used to be can make your bones ache deeply. There isn't much to say about the push and pull of everyday, except that there is a wall, your wall, and it's blank.