Skip to main content

Art For Art's Sake




I am a romantic and I am a writer. I could write a library's worth of love letters about a single glance from a passing stranger. Emotion, vulnerability, brokenness are the only things that truly move me. Some writers question your authenticity when all you create is based on feeling. Feeling low, feeling dejected, feeling hurt. But ask yourself, if your art has always been your therapy before you were brave enough to give voice to your fears and tears then who really is the better writer? Does it even matter?



I've been questioned/doubted for my writing style since I can remember. But if it is MY ART. Whatever it is, how do you doubt the validity of words coming from your chest as opposed to your mind? I'm not trying to sound "smart". I am merely trying to find healing through expressing pain in pages. You might think, "one trick pony". It's cool. I get it. But you can never assume to judge me because all I've ever related to is sadness. Be funny, be witty. Be reflective, be introspective or even bitter. All writing is beautiful.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Do you remember

Do you remember when voices from the past called me to your side Do you remember when both our heartbeats were the toughest to hide Do you remember when you called me a gift because to you time had never been too kind Do you remember when you said my stubbornness was my strength and not a weakness Do you remember the holes we patched over like a seasoned seamstress Do you remember when you touched me and it felt so good I couldn't imagine how I had existed with so much less Do you remember when we got home and all you wanted to see was my body underneath that dress Do you remember when you whispered love and chuckled like you were new to this Do you remember when our eyes met and it was as natural as coming up for a kiss Do you remember when you made me laugh until my belly was sore Do you remember when you promised you wanted to give me all that and more Do you remember when the cancer started to grow Do you remember when we started fighting and we didn't even know...

Still too young

Infinite curiosity and wonder Holding up a woolen crown Weaved with a thread of certainty Kissing both the heavens and the earth Nestling the subtle nectar of unconditional love Tentatively peering past the constraints re-imagined by men The dirt and the musk veiled by bright lights Passively they walk past monuments and metaphors Little to no regard for the rotten underbelly The stench of hopes lost, dreams discarded -           And complacency accepted as a norm Ill fitted realities we slide into Like slick robes we put them on Forsaking a most sacred calling While we abide a most trivial and misguided mental oppression Somehow convinced that this is the best we can offer Prison or a coffin… Dying before we are dead- a routine we practice too often The shoes we cannot fill are too grand A history we cannot placate Because what we are is the change they died for Unsatisfied, but we remain...

Blood Stains On The Pavement

Blood stains on the pavement The footprints of an extinguishing life force Squalor, death and rust They care not for us Gunshots, disembodied screams And the ever-present swan song of police sirens Little kids play on concrete streets No place to house innocence when home possesses no safety, Nor does it offer security In the men we can never trust, devoid of wisdom and humility     Masculinity as fragile as a wine glass We once wore deviance as the voice of the silenced Now we neatly tuck it away together with all the agency of our womanhood We weave street lights like moths to flame My brothers forget us My sisters allow it And the children cannot help but witness it They placate our existence with the amnesia we find at the bottom of a bottle They wait like vultures They poison us with unsolicited prescriptions, When only they carry the sickness Young boys raise hands and fists For a cause rooted only in violen...