What will one do for their art when it pulls them by the heart? When every cell of your body is on fire and every strand of your hair vibrates with desire to weave, to write, to sculpt, to compose. Does the beauty come from the mind? Is it within each artist or does it just appear and disappear like smoke. My throat is dry, my belly aches from hunger, I cannot sleep so I remain woke. I eat at the ash of my desire to create, to paint a picture with my words that I cannot guarantee will ever be heard. I claw at the dryness in my throat the ashes in my mouth long for the river of my mind, of my pen. Stanzas of images, of creation within. My last vestibule of thoughts of a crescendo, of wet clay upon a marble table, of dreams turned into life, to stay on the page, on the canvas, in the lyrics forever. I did this. I wrote, drew, sculpted, composed with ribs showing, eyes sunken. No matter because I know that as long as words flow, and as long as children d...
