I am an artist

personal spoken word

When I was five,

my mother told me

I was an artist;

like she could see 

the potential of my 

words in the way 

I shakily

spelled out 

my name.

I don't think I said anything...

just pursed my lips 

as I focused on making 

a capital 'R' 

facing the wrong direction, 

and trying to count 

but always skipping '13.'

At the time, I didn't understand

what she meant -- the word 

'poet'

was just a funny looking 

string of letters that was

used to describe

some dead guy. 

Over the years, 

my paintbrush became 

more refined. 

Each stroke added 

a new layer of emotion

and the eraser marks 

smudged out my pain. 

I was 10 when I wrote my first poem. 

Before then, my words were hidden

in gray outlines decorating the 

outskirts of my non-existent notes.

ADHD wasn't exactly 

' school-friendly. ' 

I spent my time drawing between the lines

and connecting the dots

from one letter to the next. 

I slogged my way through 

the next two years, 

to the point in time 

where my canvas 

had moved to my skin

and the shame that I felt

from my sin 

kept my secrets 

hidden within 

and even though it 

wasn't my sin... 

I still felt alone and ashamed.

So I covered my scars 

and my paintings, 

wore a mask that displayed 

only what I put into it

and took it off 

when I was typing

out my words

because my words

were the only thing

that brought me comfort. 

I had no voice. 

I made no sound 

except for the 

breaking of 

my soul 

but even that 

was too loud

and too soft 

and too everything else

and there was nothing

anyone did 

or said

or tried to do 

except for you.

you.

The one who broke me

in the first place. 

I served a purpose. 

For a time, 

i meant something. 

and you used that against me.

I meant something 

to someone

and you took that away. 

How could you? 

And then a birthday 

marked another year, 

and I've wondered if 

the reason I always forgot

the number '13' 

was some sort of psychic

foreshadowing, 

like part of me knew

that I wanted to 

skip the whole year

altogether. 

All the chances 

you gave me to say no.

All the times 

the subject 

came up in class.

All the talks 

I heard 

about 

'good touch'

and 

'bad touch.'

For a time, 

I thought that 

there was a chance 

that the reason I

didn't tell 

was because 

I didn't want to lose 

the connection 

I had with you. 

I was supposed to be special...

                                            ...you lied...

   

     ...or maybe you just didn't know you were telling the truth...

When I was 15, 

my mother heard 

"happy mother's day"

echo off the walls 

of a psych ward

while they tried to 

figure out 

just how many parts 

suicidal I was..

and I realized 

that the world 

is a lot smaller 

than everyone 

thinks. 

Year 18 found me 

graduating, though I'm

not exactly sure how, 

and then later that year 

at the alter as I smiled 

out my "I do."

 

19 brought memories 

I had long ago buried, 

covered in the dust 

over my brain 

and for a few months, 

I forgot how to breathe. 

The next year started 

out good, 

got worse,

then got better, 

until I could raise

my fist in a victory stance

because my past 

does not define me

for today, my strength is found 

in my survival. My feet have 

carried me down a winding path

full of potholes and rocks and

broken glass so I can show 

others where to step 

so it doesn't hurt quite as bad. 

I write out the darkness inside me

to be a light in the world, 

shine inspiration like a candle 

forever flickering in the dead 

of night, 

I fought my way through 

to stand on the edge of 

good and evil, 

referee right and wrong 

just so my story won't

have to be repeated 

quite as many times

and so my hope can be a 

testament to the power of wills.

I am an artist,

and I am not alone. 

Author's Note

personal spoken word