sky high poetry

i am not an artist.
i can’t paint
or draw for shit
or weave magic with fabric and a sewing machine.
i’m useless with a needle and thread
and i can’t sing or dance or play an instrument.
i am NOT an artist.
i am grey, and dull, boring, talentless.
to walk this earth
being as forgettable and bland as i am
is a fate i wouldn’t wish on anyone.
tongue tied when people ask me about my hobbies
or interests
what do i do for fun?
because i’m not an artist
or musician
or athlete
or writer.
i. am. nothing.
life with no talent is driving me insane.
i’m unimportant, sad.
i’m sad, so i pick up a makeup brush to feel better,
because i may be boring
but at least with makeup, i’m boring and pretty.
pretty boring.
pretty, with no personality.
pretty, with no talent.
pretty. pretty.
was it ever about being pretty?
because first, it’s about figuring out winged liner –
how does it fly, how do you get it EVEN?
what’s the right angle, the right stroke, or is it more of a feather?
then it’s about learning to play with shades and shadows and different brushes different patterns and
suddenly my world is bursting with color and i start to forget what it looks like in shades of gray.
my face becomes my canvas, the world my muse.
sure, i’m no good with paint
but give me a palate of eyeshadow and i’ll create magic.
i am colorful
and unique
and god damn it, i am unforgettable.
to walk this earth
as loud and as colorful as i am
is scary, but it’s worth it.
maybe makeup makes me pretty
but it was never about that.
because even though i can’t draw or paint for shit
or weave magic with a needle and thread
even though i’m not an athlete
or musician
or writer
i AM an artist.