These types of artists

One of the worst things about being an artist is finding the inspiration in all events. The worst is when you shine the most after feeling importance once.

Goodness the war that rages with your emotions. The need to express in all art forms. The anger, the sadness, the joy, the stress and the excitement. But never being able to say or express everything. 

A bit of sorrow that follows as the emotions fade. Within renewal of different phases of who you become afterwards.

The hopes, the dreams that quiver inside your mind, inside your spirit. Truly a different experience.

Never wanting the angry artist to screw up the words by playing them into sentences. Oh no anger is put in paint. Inside photos of blackest grays and shocking whites.

Pain, joy, laughter, love, turmoil can be placed on lines. Somehow I can not today.

I tried my hardest. Still doesn't ever seem good enough. But those words don't hold merit inside my mind.

Once, somewhere I have been just right. Not perfect. Not without severity in a blackened kettle. Oh far from the eyes of gracious and lower than the steaming lava.

I know I am who I am. I know I overthink, I over feel. Yet I don't change.  I have done enough for people. My people, my family.

Today is enough.
Everyday the artist in me breaks apart. Some days more severe than others.

Some ever so slight. Still holding up many. And yet still failing.

Sighs just come now. Tears and stuffy noses cease. Just tired. I can't do it anymore.

Yet... I... do.. WHY?

Ah I love too deeply, I feel too deeply, I care too much. And still it isn't enough.

I am tired of fighting. Searching for a way to make bridges firmer. But why try when all efforts are single held.

Artists like me don't invest in money. We invest in people. We love hard. We love deep. We,hurt more.

And yet through thick and thin we remain steadfast. Maybe not quite holding the napkin in the lap but the clouds out of the way.

Yet we remain anonymous. No recognition. We are the artists.

I am one of these artists. As I sigh with anguish as some scold me for overthinking. Had you understood these types of artists those words never would have fallen.

Alas. A poem written.
A memory fading.
A tangled red face. Cleared.

Each stroke of the brush finds a memory. I relinquish to a box. Steam places a fog. Water hits and I end my day with silence.

Memories tosses and a new day begins if Jehovah wakes me.