The artist within me is a child

—A happy one who doesn’t fret

about what people think

Or how things will turn out

She is free with her

expression and emotion

And doesn’t do it for attention or adulation

(Although a little praise wouldn’t hurt)

She doesn’t like being curt

And senses every inflection

In someone’s note or tone

Whether over email or the phone

She gives more than she takes

And gets hurt easily

But turns pain into poetry

Or a doodle that may not cause envy

She finds inspiration in life

And hates all form of strife

She lets her mood take over

And somehow words flow

From her mind to the page

Sometimes she flies into a rage

But turns that into an article or essay

She is not sure how it actually happens

She attributes it partly to magic

partly to her genes

And the rest to her love for the arts

She never takes the muse for granted

It comes at its will and does what’s wanted
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