Always the painter,
never the muse

Always the poet,
never the poem

Always the well,
never the water

Always the heart,
never the blood

Always the palette,
never the paint

Always the clouds,
never the rain.

You ask me, my what’s purpose?
I say, child, what is purpose
but threads of fabrications, lies and manipulations
they’ve made up to tell you that you’re never enough.

I say child, all I need is
a place where four walls do not exist,
where my lungs breathe and do not gasp for air,
I don’t need a label to be attached to
my ambitions.
And if you find somewhere calm,
don’t go looking for this “purpose”,
you’ll end up tattered,
your heart putrid or worse,
dead.

So, let me write my poems
And paint my pictures
Let my well bear water.
My heart filled with blood,
The palette fresh with paint,
And the clouds imbued with rain.
I don’t need a sense of belonging,
Purpose need not come running,
I’m safe. I feel needed. maybe not here,
maybe not there,
but somewhere, someday,
I’ll find peace,
and that’s all one needs.