Condemned Artist

They say that drawing is therapy. 

So I bought a sketch book in hopes that I could express to the world

how I feel. 

If only I could use a crayon and shade with it just the right way

so that everyone could see the flame

feel the heat

 scalding ash painted in grays.

 Light turning to darkness

 floating and then falling to the ground.

 I would draw and paint this world and then splatter it in red. 

Crimson painted closets and alleys hiding small children. 

I would dance my pencil upon paper

softly at first and then

 harder and harder

until all of those around could hear the screams

echoing against walls

and then trapping them inside. 

 I would color a lyrical onto paper

with all of the right pauses and beats

so that we could all just breathe. 

Colors, shapes, lines

 that never come out as straight as we’d like them to be. 

But my lines keep flowing

creating spirals and then shapes

that resemble letters

and letters that become words

and words that become sentences

and sentences that paint the pain I feel. 

So I draw and draw these words onto white canvas. 

And I paint in bold reds

pictures that look like words that look like:

PAIN, FURY, DESPERATION, TRAPPED, SUFFOCATING

HELP, ME. 

And I hide these beautiful portraits under deep purple shades of:

 I’M FINE, I’M AN ADULT NOW, I CAN HANDLE THIS. 

These complimentary colors are a representation of my duality. 

These smooth bristles stuck inside of my brush

 leave sharp, jagged strokes upon my paper. 

My drawings are my therapy…

pictures, paintings, portraits of all of the people that destroyed me. 

Maybe one day as my masterpieces are hung up in museums

 like proud, sturdy nooses in an oak tree,

people will pause in all of the right places

 they will allow their eyes to rip down the circles, squares, and lines

and see what is truly there…

words.

 Because words…are all that I have. 

And this is my therapy.