I like to do this thing
where I pretend
that my surroundings are a metaphor
for my experiences.
This led me to a time
where I parked my car in my building’s lot
and just sat in the driver’s seat
for an hour
watching the glimmering raindrops lash at the windshield
and slowly glide down the glass
as the tempestuous gales
howled around me,
thinking about all the times
that I have been sad:
the death of my childhood dog,
the end of a relationship,
my grandmother’s stroke
that robbed her of her ability
“If only someone could see me right now,
if only someone knew what I am doing,”
“then they would know
that I am a TRUE ARTIST.”
I’ve always admired those artists,
those poets, those authors,
those painters and performers,
who suffer for their art,
who make their art their suffering,
who live and breathe and die
for their art.
I want to be like them.
But coming out of that moment,
knowing that I had wasted an hour
just to pat myself on the back
about its metaphorical resonance,
I realized that I wasn’t doing it
for the right reasons.
I am vain.
A TRUE ARTIST is their art.
They don’t have to pretend
to be this thing
they are not.
I want to force myself into the box
of an artist,
and that’s not glamorous or avant-garde;
I hope you can forgive me.
Happy first day of National Poetry Month, everyone! To celebrate, I am going to be posting a poem here on my blog every Monday, and I will have a short poem up on my Instagram every day except Mondays. Most of these posts have already been scheduled, so I am hopeful that even as life gets crazy hectic again soon, I will be able to follow through on this promise.
On a different note, I have a different domain now! One without the .wordpress! I am super excited for the future of this blog and my other poetry endeavors, which I will reiterate in my 100th post on this blog, which will also be coming up this month. April will be a whirlwind, but I’m so happy you are here to share it with me.
If you liked this poem, here are some other similar poems:
Want to follow The Yellow Brick Ave?