I was born into a world of creativity. I’m convinced I saw color before my eyes could fully open, and I heard music before I could walk. I was always observing my surroundings, taking in every detail. A lot of kids my age thought I was strange (which I most likely was, and still am), because I was very quiet. I paid attention to every sound on the street, the colors of the leaves, what the grass felt like underneath my toes, and paid very little attention to making conversation with classmates.
I discovered very quickly in school that I hated math, dreaded gym, and thought science was, you know, alright I guess. But, english, band class, and art were something that I looked forward to every year, and thrived in.
Growing up, I had a lot of guidance in the arts, thanks to some very influential people that helped to shape my life choices and inspire me to continue to follow my passions.
My Dad is a truly gifted musician, and through this, he introduced me to one of my biggest loves. His entire side of the family, from my grandparents to my aunts, uncles, and cousins, are creators; they’re artists, actors, and designers. My brother and sister both actively embrace the arts and have real talent, and one of my best friends is one of the most talented makeup artists I’ve ever seen.
Now, as a young adult, I am a Creative Writing Major, and I identify as both a musician and a writer. This is what I want to be known for, and this is what I will live for.
I have gotten countless skeptical looks and the anticipated question, “well, what are you going to do with that?” I have faced constant doubt - from society, from others, and from myself, in the path I am choosing to take with my future. I realize that I am not the only person in the arts feeling this way. And so, this poem is dedicated to all the artists, musicians, and writers that are confronted with these challenges. I hope that by reading it, you all might feel some level of comfort and confidence in your creativity, and embrace it fully.
You were born a
creator,
a maker of
things only you see.
Your hands are the greatest tools
of vision,
translation,
communication,
so others
can live and breathe
your vision.
You grew up in
color,
enclosed in a
vibrant
charade of
rainbows
that came to
life when you
were handed a
brush,
some paint, and
learned
what
happens when
they
touch paper.
You breathe in
inspiration, and
put your soul
on
public display
when
you stand
on that stage, and
let your fingers do the talking
on that
beat-up
saxophone you got
when you were ten years old.
You live for the
exhilaration of your
own thrillers; sensation
novels that you
know the ending to
before they even begin, and
somehow
still feel excitement
with each turn of
the page and
each path you take.
You are a magician.
You turn ordinary faces into
goblins and green witches,
sultry mermaids, and
unknown aliens from
foreign places, all with a
few flicks of the wrist, and
some makeup for
the trick of transformation,
to make a woman who hasn’t felt
beautiful since her husband left her,
or the cancer found her,
smile again
when she looks in the mirror.
You are told to
grow up,
that you could be
so much more than
what you are now, and
that you can’t
make a living
Off of living
this way.
Your limitation depends on
the imagination that
spans
your body,
runs through
your veins.
It will never falter,
know that it is
beautiful, and
to never change.
