When thinking of artistry, there is always a large piece of me that looks at myself as more than just an artist, but that being the basis. There was a production during my senior year of high school that was a celebration of multicultural people.

Here, I was a part of a subproject in the production that was comprised of unconnected scenes that displayed the struggles of being a minority in America. In my piece, I wrote a poem about being a poet of the canvas, that shows that there's a sensitivity to people and artistic creativity in everyone.

A Poet of the Canvas

When you ask who I am,

I’ll respond with

“I’m an artist”

A poet of the canvas

Truth in uncertainty

Serenity within turmoil

Difference in the uniform

There’s fluidity my hands desire

When I attempt write poetry

There’s a part of me that knows what I want to say

And a part of me that can’t translate it to paper

My canvas remains blank

My mind ran until it is empty

Searching for a new inspiration

A force to drive new thoughts

On the same project

No two thoughts got the same results

I felt my heart racing, and slowing

Ideas turned into failures

Failures that are scrapped

And new ideas for new projects and

New works

Nothing to ever be completed

Like most stories

There’s a breakthrough everyone experiences

Mine,

I forced myself to focus

Not allowed to begin new projects without progressing in current ones

I was put to pursue what my heart desires,

To grow as an artist

And an individual

I would write poetry

About my mind,

How I think, act

And view the world

“There’s only one euphoria

And that’s this Earth

Us, artists, all human beings have to meld this world

To support us

No more separation of desires

We are changemakers”

That’s what I believe in, what I tell myself everyday

Two years have past

And I still pick up my gray folder

Bent and ripped

To read E.E Cummings and John Hollander

Self-written inspiration pieces

Where every letter is deliberately placed

Strategically to form a cigarette

A nail

Or to exclaim “The boy cried wolf!”

I write in rhythm

And music in my voice

There's music in learning

There’s music in success

Music in nervousness

Music that builds into a home, for me and everyone else

I’ve learned to look at writing

And to look at words
As a painting

Poetry on a canvas

Words as paintbrushes

To fill the canvas blue

Layer it red

And the corners green

I am a poet of the canvas.