I am an Artist who feeds off the emotion of the world.

Paintbrush in one hand, chapstick in other,

I am quite the complexed girl.

Some call me irregular or uncommon to the eye,

but as I sit here to write this poem the mystery becomes no lie.

I walk the streets of Harlem hands in pocket, eyes open.

Headphones in my ears praying and hoping

to cross a path where the flowers bloom.

I take deep breaths in and my power I consume.

I imagine my fingers touching the easel to paint a weasel or a Mona Lisa that is.

I cannot be content with my work because a reflection I whiz,

of the struggles of my people as their sneakers cover the lines

that draw lines in between whites and blacks, for I am not colorblind.

I just choose to be pro black and not anti-white.

Langston Hughes is my brother and so is Brian McKnight

Britney Spears is my idol, I cherish Garth Brooks

Taylor swift and Marvin Gaye wrote chapters in my book.

My art is my mouth, but this picture I can’t paint.

I must turn away from the easel and head to the sink,

where the pinch pots lay and the kiln is hot.

I pace myself to mold and yet behold a turtle for my tot.

I am an artist who is creative with sound

Yet I followed the yellow brick road and ended up on a greyhound

To an institution that was no substitute for me. Found no desire to write so I attempted to read.

But in the process of reading I lost all power once consumed.

My pictures I couldn’t get out; for my voice was not immune

to the silence of strangers when I stood on a stage

to speak about my black statue of liberty which Jessica Care Moore enraged.

For I am not expected to be an artist.

Like Picasso with paintings I am not divine.

But with words on a paper I am graded out of 10, a nine.

The lyrics to my song not many understand.

I dare to be different.

I am a woman who is compassionate for Ailey and of his works I weep.

Money can’t buy happiness and fame won’t develop in a week.

I educate myself through my fear.

Possibly a freshman in college when I should be a junior year.

So I pinch my pot again because a turtle will not do.

This time I aim for a heart shaped helium-less balloon

And through it my insecurities fly away.

I can save painting a mindless Da Vinci for another day.

Hopefully the kiln doesn’t blow up because bubbles equal epic fail.

Either way I am still an artist because I am a writer and I write well.

I am no Janis Joplin or Alicia keys

But the tune of my words will help others to feed.

Feast that is on the option of being diverse.

Eclectic in retrospect my dances I rehearse.

On the corner I dropped my purse.

Out came fifteen cent.

All I have is a dollar and a dream but my work is so precious, my dollar is well spent.

I may have failed at my sculpture, my garden and what you call art.

But my words are my life and from this keyboard I will not part.

Maybe just for now because through this poem I’ve proven to be

an artist in many areas: trumpet, step, screen play even a lil Hugh Laurie.

I can sing like Whitney and act like Forest.

If you give me a chance to show you, you will see I’m all for it.

Just because I prefer to write my pictures instead of using water colors and fruit,

I refuse to be classified as an amateur or out of the loop.

You see talent comes in many forms and my talent defines me

I am an artist, I Am an artist. I Am an Artist

and my art desires to speak.