8-31-16 The Artist

 •The Artist• 

We scold the artist on the streets

The artists with bloody hands and red eyes

The artists who draw only with pencil or only with paint 

The artists with no material at all

Awake and bustling with creativity 

It's like a drug to them 

We punish them for tattooing tunnels and silent trains 

Throw them out of class for using too much or too little 

Not following the direction on the paper

People don't see the graffiti already in the cracks of their cheeks

Whenever they smile, another mysterious idea

Whenever they open their mouths, another master piece

The rattling of their spray cans like a symphony being conducted 

Only to be interrupted by sneaky critics hiding in the bushes 

Honks and yelling of passing cars 

We scold the artists in our minds

We criticize our owns works and wonders

But it's all beautiful 

The crayon drawing from a child

The abstract building from an adult 

The sketches and paintings from a teen 

Life put onto canvas and paper 

Stories put into paint 

Brushes like magic wands in our broken hands 

Dreams turned into a ink 

Let us not scold the artists on the streets 

Let us not scold the artist in our broken minds 

Broken means you can fill those cracks with paint