The Closet Artist

No more secrets.

No more shame.

No more fear.

No more blame.


A world within me,

Unexplored.

I listen to the news

And I'm fucking bored.


All of this focus

On humanity's pain

Another story told

And I have lost myself

Again.


How can we cry

For our sisters and brothers

When we are not taught

To nurture each other?


The society in which we live

Casts a shadow upon

The Closet Artist.


Fears of expression

Shoved down one's throat

As to make an impression

Is what matters most.


I grieve for all

Who feel like me.

Terrified of exploring

Their creativity.


A seed half watered,

Collections of unfinished drafts.

A gentle tip-toe around

So many sacred crafts.


Fear of the unknown.

Fear of losing control.

Fear of replacing my mind

With the longings of my soul.


Delicate.

Raw.

Vulnerable.

Free.


Fear of knowing my own truth,

Of acknowledging 'me'.


I behold the beauty of my unfinished work.

Embracing their union with these few gentle words.

A family of hope. Diverse in their nature.

All birthed from love, by the same creator.


The force that invokes a bird cry

Or asks the wind to blow.

A timeless time,

Of dreams gone by.


The current that sends me home.

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