Too often, I fade into the fantastical what-ifs, and the colors of yesterday ache a bit too hard. 

I’m no artist. 

I struggle with the ones who are no longer in my life to this day. Maybe they were taken from me and left a hole where only grief can fit. Maybe it’s for the best because our lives were not made to blend harmoniously. Maybe I will simply never know why we fell apart. Maybe it was my fault after all. 

I’m no artist. 

I think of how I should erase the pain of memory by writing life over what was. I burden myself with work and movement so idleness doesn’t lend itself to thought. I cannot stop because the war within is ever-waging. Movement is the quieter of rage.

I’m no artist. 

I live the future before the present has taken place. I’ve scrawled responsibility across my path and curled my fingers tightly around a never-ending list of must-dos. I have so much life to live because I’ve seen the end of legacies. I know I must exist and how little it takes to become undone. 

I’m no artist, 

Because my letting gos haven’t grown easier and my holding ons always linger past the point of should. This tension tightens around my heart and longingly seeks seconds of release. 

I’m no artist, but I will always be a lover of this art. Perhaps one day I will create solace in myself and craft the beauty of this balance. 



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