i read so deep into everything
elle or il? ils or elles? me,
a girl, and them, boys?
what am i thinking?
language hurts me to
imagine existing
to ponder, to use
and art
hurts to do.
i want to make meaning
ful art in the sun
i want to make it
feeling happy
and free
but i don’t,
because i’ve grown
accustomed
to loving
feeling and freeing
my wishes my worries
my wants and my urges
my art doesn’t belong
(to me in my head)
when i’m good.
when i suffer, i try
to write it away
to draw it to shaky rhythm
of hands on paper
and trembling
keyboards
but ultimately
the hardest pain
i get through it by feeling
by talking by thinking
by finding solace in living.
art is expression but sometimes
i don’t want to express it.
and yet as an artist
(or am i one? yet? or at all?)
i should make art, right?
or do i not need to?
but how will i change the world
with personal kept-to-myself
genius?
am i arrogant? or is it confidence?
i’m bending on my crossed legs
and my back and neck hurt
as i type this fervently.
see my point?
i read so deep into everything.
i’m taking time from my french
i don’t want to fail my grade
again.