Artists

A poem about the life of artists growing up, and their struggles to really grow up.

I have had so many people ask me

How do you draw that

Where did you learn to draw

Can you teach me how to do that

And it makes me remember

When we were kids.

Where a box of 48 crayons was freedom.

Where we lost the black in the very bottom

And we had no idea why we had yellow-green

When we snapped our scarlets

and we broke our blues

...and then we grew up.

And the other kids, they didn't use their crayons.

We still did

We Artists did.

We gave our humans curves in the right places

and gave our animals bright colors and patterns

We shaded

We sketched

We dreamt

We hoped

And they didn't like that.

They laughed and they mocked.

They smirked and they jeered.

But we kept drawing those same little animals

That were our imaginary friends from the start

So when you ask me again

How do you draw that

I'll say

"Because you stopped,"

And I'll get up

And I'll walk away

With my Land of Keeping

in my arms

Because we are Artists

And we don't stop.

Author's Note

It's been a while since I last reviewed some things and I changed it up a bit, but I don't know if the flow still works?