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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